Eyes behind masks
by Kaiyo No Hime
Summary: Set after 'The Reichenback Fall'.  A serial killer is on the loose in London, practicing bloody deeds with a careful hand and a sharp knife.  But why are they after John Watson?  And how is Mycroft to keep him safe?
1. Chapter 1

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

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><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter One

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><p>John had only noticed them briefly at the first crime scene, too involved in the bloody murder itself to pay attention to the artifacts and toys that surrounded what was once a happy, young girl's life. Someone had crept in through the window and slit her throat silently in the night, and then the torture had started.<p>

Whomever had done it hadn't wanted to see the girl suffer and scream like so many other sadists; he had merely wanted to cut upon her flesh, skinning her body and cutting out her eyes, sewing gold pieces, extremely valuable gold pieces, behind the lids where pale green orbs had once looked out. Lestrade had only called him to the first crime scene to see if he recognized anything from one of Sherlock's old cases. He hadn't, but he had volunteered to help. Normally New Scotland Yard would have turned down such an offer; they already had far more experts than they could use, but once upon a time John Watson had worked beside a man named Sherlock Holmes, and that still meant something. To Lestrade, at least, if all of the other officers on the case thought it odd they simply kept quiet. They remembered what had happened, knew just how difficult Lestrade became when reminded of the consulting detective's suicide.

"Can you make anything of it," Lestrade asked quietly, kneeling down beside John as the doctor examined the body.

"Whoever did this was ruthless, but they never intended to inflict pain. She was dead in an instant, no time to call out or even realize what was going on."

"Some mercy left in the world," Lestrade swore, staring down at the little girl's corpse.

"Dressed in clothes after death, after he skinned her. He took the skin, probably as a trophy, and the eyes. Those were removed whole. Whoever did this knew what they were doing, a medical student or practitioner of some sort. This was no amateur job, and definitely not the first time they've practiced on a human body. No hesitation cuts, everything done with a well skilled hand. I'm almost jealous, even I was never this good," John sighed, standing up suddenly and backing away from the body.

He had done it again, he thought to himself as he shook his head and rubbed at his eyes. He was slipping into that logical, dickish sort of speaking and thinking at crime scenes that he had always lectured Sherlock about. Whoever had done this had been both a monster and a master, and here he was, _envious_ of the skill. He was sliding into Sherlock's role too easily, he would have to watch out. Would have to take a few steps back and remind himself that he was human. Remind himself just what being human _was_.

"Taxidermist do you think," Anderson piped up from the other side of the room, "Would explain a few things."

"No," John sighed, biting his tongue to keep an insult in his mouth, "A taxidermist would never bother learning how to skin a human corpse. They're more about reconstruction than deconstruction. This person works with human flesh on a regular basis. Still warm bodies, too. He stopped when she began to cool."

"How can you tell that then," Anderson sneered, "Familiar with killing from your time with the freak?"

"Anderson!" Lestrade snapped.

"You're a fool Anderson," John sighed, "Look at the body. He stopped cutting when she stopped bleeding. He doesn't know how to work with cold bodies. Not well, at least. Or he doesn't enjoy it."

Lestrade sighed as he looked down at the little girl. Sarah Andrews, no more than six, and she would never get a day older. She had wanted a puppy for her birthday her mother had moaned. Lestrade had had to assure her that a puppy wouldn't have saved her. He had kept quiet at what the murderer might have done to a dog if he was capable of doing that to a little girl.

"Those are odd dolls," John mentioned on a whim, looking at five porcelain dolls wearing little red eye masks, staring at the bed. Staring at the _body_.

Lestrade just shrugged. He had no custody of his daughters, and no clue what sort of dolls girls favored these days anyway. Probably from some sort of television show he figured, and then he dismissed them altogether.

Because, quite honestly, who ever looks at a little girl's dolls?

John just sighed, and turned toward the door. He may have worked with Sherlock Holmes, once upon a time, but he wasn't Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant man who would have spotted the one key piece of evidence in an instant, and solved the case. He would have saved countless children, and walked away without a care in the world because all the world was to him, had been to him; a puzzle. And once the puzzle had been solved everything else that had surrounded it was useless.

"Thanks for this, John," Lestrade smiled weakly, "You helped, you really did."

"Yeah, but not enough," John glared at the dolls, as if it was their fault that he couldn't spot what that curly haired madman could have.

"Better than nothing," Lestrade led the blonde man from the room and out onto the street to catch him a cab.

Lestrade had seen that look in eyes before. That soul searching, dull, lifeless look. While he trusted the doctor to get himself home in one piece, he would bet money that there would be no sleep had that night. Not when the short man was trying to prove himself to be better than the human race, better than a genius, and always coming up two steps short.

"Take care of yourself John," Lestrade said, watching a cab approach, "You're no good to anyone if you can't even manage that."

"Of course," John replied automatically, "Thanks Lestrade. For this, for everything."

Lestrade just shook his head and watched the cab drive away. Thanking him for a murder to investigate was doubtless a bad sign, but it was a better sign than locking himself away and working himself to death when he did manage to get out. At least he had moved away from Baker street, away from any memories of the past. Of course, Lestrade thought to himself as he headed back inside, maybe running away from Baker street was an even worse sign than staying there.

To be continued.

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><p>AN: So I haven't writing a multiple chapter story in quite a while, so hand in there with me. I may update every day until the end, or miss a week here and there as life dictates. But I will finish this story, even if I have to wrangle it into place with Mycroft's silly little umbrella.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Two

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><p>"You're running late, my dear doctor," a voice echoed across the tiny living room, and John groaned.<p>

"Get out, Mycroft," the tired doctor demanded, "Just get out."

Mycroft merely smiled, and motioned for the blonde man to sit in the armchair opposite him, and partake of the steaming cups of tea that were set out on the old coffee table, complete with pastry spread and a variety of nibbling fruit.

"You're looking a little thin, John," Mycroft said in way of explanation of John's raised eyebrow, "And you really should have been at that counseling appointment I set up for you oh, say, about twenty minutes ago?"

John ignored the food, but gratefully added sugar and cream to the tea before collapsing into the overstuffed chair. The one true luxury in his tiny abode. He glared at the older man who merely stared back nonchalantly, as if invading a man's house and serving him a feast of an afternoon tea was a common occurrence in his world.

"I don't need your food, your sympathy, or your counselors Mycroft," John snapped, "So piss off and let me get on with my life."

"Except you're not getting on with your life, are you," Mycroft pointed out, "You've moved out, but you haven't moved on. And, really John, this slum? You can do far better than this. I know my brother left you a little bit of money, you could easily have stayed at Baker street, or moved somewhere else far more stylish than this... sty."

"I would please thank you not to insult my home," John snapped, draining his tea cup in one quick swallow, "And get the fuck out of my flat."

"I have rescheduled your appointment for tomorrow at two in the afternoon," Mycroft sighed, standing slowly and making a grand show of dusting off his jacket, "And please do try to eat a little more. Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to see you like this."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to see him jump off a roof."

Mycroft paused for a moment, his umbrella still swinging gracefully in his hands. He didn't turn to look at John, he just paused a moment mid step at the door, and John could have sworn he actually saw the man wince. Apparently there was a flaw in the Holmes armor after all.

"That was a most... unfortunate situation," Mycroft sighed, still pausing by the door, turning to look back at John, "But still the fact remains, torturing yourself won't bring him back."

"But it seemed to suit him very well indeed, didn't it," John shot back.

"Eat the food, John, starvation is making you cranky."

And, with that final parting blow, the English government slipped out of a mangy little flat on Governs street, far from the nicest part of town.

"A child killer is what is making me cranky," John spat, glaring at the food.

He knew he should eat. He knew he really should listen to Mycroft as well. It wasn't sane to wrap himself up so completely in work at the clinic that he would forget to eat until he was on the verge of collapse. He had lectured Sherlock time and time again about bad eating and sleeping habits.

But he just couldn't bring himself to taste the delicious looking food on the table. On the one hand he was almost positive that it was drugged, he would never put it past Mycroft to pull a stunt like that and relocate him to some sort of facility, but on the other hand he knew it was a waste. Everything tasted of copper, rain, and grit in his mouth, no matter the quality of the food. All he could remember was screaming for Sherlock and then _tasting_ his blood on the air.

Oh god, John sobbed to himself, he could still taste his blood. He could still taste his best friend's blood, and no amount of food would ever cure that. He set his tea cup down gently on the table. It was a beautiful piece, delicate with arcing flowers and a handle that was more for show than use. Mycroft had impeccable, if not outrageously expensive, taste. John stared at the teacup, and then looked over the extravagant spread once more, studying it more than seeing it, and then lifted his leg and pushed the entire coffee table over.

"Sodding bastard," John glared at the shut door, ignoring the mess on the floor as he walked around it.

What he needed now wasn't food. And it wasn't the comfort of friends, or the numbness of work. No, what John Watson really, truly needed was the dreary oblivion of a full night of sleep, and the comfortable knowledge that, even if Sherlock would still be dead tomorrow, he wouldn't have to face that fact until tomorrow. So the doctor stepped around the mess, turned off the lights, and sank into the darkness of a well drugged sleep.

And he was quite proud that he only woke screaming to nightmares twice that night.

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><p>Work at the clinic was repetitive, normal, and exactly what John both loved and hated. There was no danger treating stuffy noses and clogged ears, there was no excitement assuring mothers that it was, indeed, just a cold, and little Billy wasn't dying of some mysterious disease. But it was what John needed. It allowed him to shut down his brain and just concentrate on facts. On how warm a temperature was, how swollen an ankle was, at how long a cough had lasted.<p>

And oh how John Watson hated himself for giving into this pedestrian need to shut his mind down on an emotional level. He was supposed to be the one that cared he constantly reminded himself. Now he was the one that could barely remember how to. Of course, it's rather hard to lecture a corpse on how to care more, he reminded himself distantly. He was sure Sherlock would point out that a random collection of rotting human flesh could no more care about anything than it could care about not caring about anything.

It was almost a relief when Lestrade texted.

There was another murder.

John just grinned at his phone before grabbing his phone and dashing out the door.

"Police business," he signaled to the receptionist, "Can't be helped!"

John finally understood why Sherlock had found this so exciting. It was like a breath of fresh air after the mundane monotony of simple living! He hoped the case was so much more than the last one. And, deep in the back of his mind, a little voice reminded him that it was a murder, he should feel sorry for the victim, not exhilarated. John found that little voice a little easier to ignore today than he had previously, and he simply didn't care how much that should scare him.

Why should he care about little things like that when there was a murder to solve?

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><p>AN: I'm glad you've all enjoyed the story so far. Or at least have found it interesting enough to continue reading. It should be of interesting note here that caraway seeds taste icky, and I ruined a perfectly good seed cake by following a traditional recipe that used them. I should have trust my mother and my great grandmother: when in doubt, use saffron. The second seed cake tasted much better. Might have also helped that it was never on fire either. I completely blame the caraway seeds in the first seed cake for that.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

Warning: Extremely gruesome scenery ahead.

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><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Three

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><p>Angelica Thorson had been a rather plain woman in life. She had never worn makeup beyond casual chapstick, had always worn her ashy hair in a severe bun, had worn very simple glasses, and seemed to only own varying shades of black and gray in her wardrobe. She was, at twenty six years of age, quite nearly the oldest person anyone that knew her actually knew. Even her own mother had joked that her lovely little Angelica was older than her own grandmother.<p>

And so, when her body had been discovered by her neighbor, whom she had not seen in three days and was worried as Angelica Thorson always did everything by a very rigorous, very exacting schedule, she of course called the police and reported her murdered. Ms Angelica Thorson's neighbor, calling the police with the reasonings she had instead of investigating, saved herself the rather disturbing shock of actually discovering her body.

John Watson, adrenaline junkie extraordinaire, was not so lucky. He had seen gruesome deaths during the war. He had seen people screaming and clutching their own severed limbs, he had seen children turned into piles and smears of red and chunks of bone, but he had never seen anything like what he found in that apartment.

Angelica Thorson, prim, detailed, immaculate Angelica Thorson had been, nearly quite literally, turned into an angel. The tell tale throat slash was there, indicating the mercy of a quick death, but there was no way not to gag at the sight of the disfigured corpse.

Her ribcage had been very carefully spread (skinned before the bones were broken and repositioned John noted to himself) out behind her, each one bending (Use of acid of some sort to soften the bones, lacquer agent of some sort to stiffen them in shape John whispered in his mind, taking notes from beyond the shock of the scene) majestically outward, curving like the structure of wings. And there, carefully pinned and placed, her skin was used as feathers. Not leather bat wings, but each little strand of skin had been carefully, quickly cut into feathers, and decorated the bones (More skin used as feathers than possible from her corpse alone, must be from other victims, her skin possibly not here at all).

And, to top it off, to add the tiniest, most horrifying cherry to the macabre cake that the scene was, Ms Angelica Thorson was smiling and she was _beautiful_. She was gorgeous, and innocent, and just simply beautiful in a way that she had never been in life, and John thought it was sad that such a pretty girl had to die in such an ugly manner. Angelica Thorson's mother would always think the smile posed, and the beauty of the scene nothing more than some sort of heinous joke against her daughter.

"Does she still have her eyes," John asked out loud, studying one of the human flesh feathers carefully without touching it.

It was too tan to belong to Angelica, it had to have come from someone who was actually outdoors a great deal. Multiple victims. A serial killer that had gone unnoticed, definitely not someone who was bringing his work home with him. He was too clever to get caught that way, even if it would have been easier than saving the skin from others. They would have to check the flesh for signs of being frozen, try to estimate just how old it was.

"No, same as Sarah Andrews, gold coins sewn into the sockets, no eyes," Lestrade sighed, "Coins are replicas, completely untraceable. A thousand pawn sites online have them."

"Not valuable then," John asked, surprised.

Given the detail that the killer used in his work, the positioning of the corpse, the skill in which he carved them, the work it would have taken to reshape the bones alone, he was surprised that the coins were a simple affair. He would have assumed they were as neat and detailed as the rest of the work; quality over quantity. Although, given the timeline, Angelica Thorson had been killed two days before Sarah Andrews. The killer was catching up to quantity without his quality lacking.

"Oh, very valuable. Just very common," Lestrade said, "No way to trace anything through them. We're checking for bulk orders though, maybe he decided to go for a bargain that way."

"Check all of the feathers for DNA," John commented, examining another, "They don't all belong to her. In fact, I would go as far as to say that none of them belong to her. They're carved, he wouldn't have had time for that, he only had time to create the wings. He brought the feathers with him."

"Probably from that little girl," Anderson said, bagging one of the feathers carefully.

"No, Sarah Andrews was killed after her, not before. You have either a series of unreported victims, or a series of murders that no one has linked so far," John sat back on heels, thinking, "Check the feathers for freezing. Maybe he has been taking his work home with him. Plastic surgery, removal of excess skin could be where the feathers came from. Hopefully."

"Hopefully," Donovan lifted an eyebrow.

"Because otherwise, you have at least four other victims that have either never been discovered, or are lost in your system," John spat, standing up and walking over to the shelf on the far wall, "She has those same dolls too. A bit odd."

John stared at the five dolls. Each one beautifully dressed in silks, hand sewn from the looks of them, with tiny little red masks over their eyes. The care and skill to put little red masks over the eyes of dolls, to sew the eye holes to prevent raveling alone must have taken an enormous amount of effort. With a gloved finger John lifted the mask on the first doll and gasped.

The dolls eyes, delicate little glass orbs, had been sewn open.

"Lestrade, the dolls are evidence," John barked, turning back to the Detective Inspector, "He's sewn the doll's eyes _open_!"

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><p>AN: And, from here on out, things are going to get a bit, well, bloody. A bit bloody, heh, that's like saying just a few people are going to die in 'Game of Thrones'. No, things are going to get very, very bloody, and very, very disturbing. Odd how that usually happens with serial killers, isn't it?<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Four

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><p>Mycroft Holmes was many things. He was precise, he was confident, and, most of all, he was patient. But he was quickly losing his patience with one John Watson, MD, and was having to control the sudden urge to throw his phone across the room. Instead of attending the counseling session he had arranged for him, <em>yet again<em>, the doctor had managed to attend a brutal crime scene instead.

It did not help that instead of eating he had destroyed his coffee table and everything on it in a most polite and delicate fit of rage. The only thing stopping Mycroft from strangling the blonde man was many years of experience of dealing with these same issues with Sherlock himself.

Mycroft chewed at his lip for moment, contemplating having John tested for drugs, and then shook his head. John was bull headed and a pain, but he was no cocaine user. Although he did have a growing caffeine habit that was reaching alarming levels, Mycroft thought to himself. He would have to have that monitored, it wouldn't do to have the doctor succumb to something as mundane as caffeine poisoning. The uptight British man actually let out a small chuckle (perfectly disguised as a cough, of course), when he realized that he was obsessing over John in nearly the same manner as he had obsessed over the well being of his dear departed younger brother for so many years.

It seemed that his life was devoted to nothing more than caring. He had to smile at that. Mycroft Homes: Professional Carer. Please, do try not to stain the shoulders with tears.

"Sir," his assistant's voice interrupted his inner comedy, and Mycroft sighed, waving a hand for her to continue, "Doctor Watson is currently on the scene of a murder. There has been a new development."

Mycroft's eyebrow rose. A new development? While it was a serial killing, obvious by the killer's thoughtful signature to kill the victim before desecrating the corpse instead of resorting to torture, he couldn't very well fathom what would be new about the most recent victim. Woman, average on a disturbing level, nothing unique about her, no connections to the other victim at all. Random, brutal slayings.

"There are more victims, sir. Confirmed evidence of at least five more at the scene of the crime."

"Is John in any danger," Mycroft asked suspiciously.

His assistant shook her head, "Not believed to be as of yet. They need to do DNA testing to check previous victims against other murders. Proceed to upgrade case to more qualified investigators?"

"No, not yet," he sighed, "There is very little that John has in his life right now. Maybe chasing down a serial killer is exactly what he needs. But do arrange for the car, if you please. It is getting late and I would rather he didn't attempt to walk home alone. He does live in an unpleasant neighborhood."

"Dinner at the usual place," Anthea asked, not looking up from her BlackBerry.

"Expand the reservation to include our dear Watson. He's becoming a little too frayed around the edges," he began packing his briefcase, "Is his apartment clean yet? I would hate for him to go home to that terrible mess afterward. He really does need his rest as well, doesn't he?"

"Yes sir," Anthea smirked back, "Already taken care of."

Mycroft nodded, and followed her out of the office. He would miss her when she finally decided to leave him, all of his assistants did when their desire for a life outside of work finally reared its ugly head, but he trusted her completely. He was unsure he would even find his shoes in the morning without her at times.

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><p>John stepped under the caution tape, and glared at the black, nondescript car parked in the street. He had spent the last two hours examining one of the most bizarre corpses he had ever had the privilege to see, and then examining five tiny, nearly disturbingly perfect dolls. And now one Mycroft Holmes seemed to be happily waiting for him.<p>

Today had been his day. Today he had immensely enjoyed. Tonight, much like the night before, was looking to very much not be his night. Again. He really needed to have words with the last remaining Holmes brother. Maybe direct him to counseling as he clearly had younger brother issues that needed clearing up. Maybe even convince him to get a cat. He could see Mycroft sitting in a chair, petting a cat. And plotting the destruction of the known world while he was at it.

On second thought, he really shouldn't get a cat. Far too cliché, especially for a Holmes, John decided.

The door to the car opened and John entered without being asked. There was no use refusing Mycroft, it just ended in manhandling as he had long since discovered.

"John," Mycroft greeted cordially, sending an unseen signal to the driver to leave.

"So, do you just not understand the phrase 'piss off', or do I need to break the sentence down into tiny little words for you," John sighed, relaxing back into the leather seat, "Because believe me, I am very serious when I tell you to leave me the fuck alone Mycroft."

Mycroft frowned. Both he and John understood why he was there; for the sake of a dead man, but Mycroft liked to believe it was a little bit more. Maybe he did need someone to care for, it had been a part of his upbringing and nearly his entire life afterward.

"John, I would gladly leave you to your own devices if I could be sure that you would survive if allowed to do so," Mycroft explained, "You hardly sleep, you barely eat, and you run yourself ragged with a full time job and helping the police force. One of these days you will simply stop where you stand, and that will be the end of John Watson. And I cannot allow that."

"You allowed Sherlock far worse," John pointed out, glaring out the window.

The politician sighed, and rubbed at his face tiredly. In was the one barb that John knew would always hit home, and so it was the one that he always used; Sherlock. Mycroft had allowed Sherlock enough rope to get himself hung, and he regretted that now, but the fact still remained that he had allowed it to happen time and time again.

"Sherlock was different," Mycroft started.

"Sherlock is dead now because of you," John spat.

Mycroft looked away suddenly at that, wincing noticeably. There was no getting around that face with John; the man was still in mourning for his best friend. He refused to move beyond grief and anger, and had let himself fall into a rut. Mycroft sighed and closed his eyes. Sometimes the only way to help someone is to let them set you on fire first.

"Sherlock always walked away in the end. But you, Doctor Watson, will not. If this goes on much further you won't. You will die cold, and alone, and unmourned. Do you really want that?"

"I'm just trying to catch a serial killer," John glared, "What you worry about is your own problem. Let me out here, I still have two feet to walk with."

Mycroft sighed and nodded, and signaled for the driver to pull aside.

When John let himself into his apartment later that evening, cold and more than a little tired, he simply ignored the simple dinner that had been set out for him on the coffee table. If Mycroft Holmes felt he was a charity case that he needed to fund he would not stop the man. But neither would he encourage him.

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><p>AN: Yes, it is possible to die of a caffeine overdose. Individual discrepancies aside, it generally takes about eighty cups of standard coffee to achieve such results, so it is quite difficult via that method. But, given the vast quantity of highly caffeinated beverages on the market these days, and the ready supply of caffeine pills without prescription, it is possible. Though highly unlikely a person, and especially a doctor, would succumb to a caffeine overdose due to the fact that he would notice the signs of caffeine intoxication long before then. Hopefully.<p>

Also, it's okay for you readers to leave reviews. Really, it is. I'm currently working my way through the MIT 6.002x course right now, and some e-mails that didn't surround physics equations and other engineering discussions would be rather nice to be honest.


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Five

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><p>John stared at his bedroom ceiling. He was very familiar with the faces and shapes in the spackle, and even had a fondness for some of the dark water stains. The muted patch of brown in the corner by the tightly curtained window looked like a sleeping cat, and the two dancers by the bare bulb reminded him of a waltz mid step. He hadn't named the giant, encroaching stain by the door that was slowly traveling outward, but Blob or Swamp Monster quickly came to mind. He should really have that stain checked, it could be mold or mildew of some deadly variety.<p>

He chuckled when he thought of it. He could nearly see the papers now: ex Army medic killed by deadly spores. Page 13 special. Of course, knowing Mycroft, there would be a lovely funeral and a lovely gravestone for no one to mourn at. John sighed, and turned to look at the red digital numbers on his alarm clock.

1:17. He had managed to waste nearly two whole minutes while contemplating his death by mold. Maybe if he concentrated more on the funeral than the graveyard he would eat more time. Maybe his mind would even slip into sleep on its own. It was far too late for him to take a sleeping pill, he wouldn't be able to shake off the effects of one in time to get up for work in five hours. But maybe he could call in sick, he thought to himself, it had been a while.

But he had also been cutting his hours short to work with Lestrade, he sighed. No one would believe him if he called in sick. They would just assume he was at the scene of another grisly murder, and dock one of his vacation days. John chuckled out loud at the thought of him ever taking a vacation. Where did he ever go? The last time he had been abroad he had been shot at. He had even managed to nearly get run over while on that trip to France in school. No, he sighed and covered his eyes with a sore arm, he would just have to try to sleep the natural way, and muddle through his shift with as much caffeine as his system would allow.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. John didn't even notice when the breathing dissolved into sobs, and then, finally, a terror filled sleep.

* * *

><p>Six hours later, as the world was concerned more with coffee and traffic than anything or anyone around it, Lestrade sat on a faded chair in a living room and watched a woman sobbing into a handkerchief. Her son, entering his last year at school, had been late getting up. Not that this had been abnormal for the teenager, so his mother had gone upstairs to hustle him out of bed and off to school when she had found his corpse.<p>

His corpse that had carefully, quickly, cleanly, and silently nearly completely had all of his bones removed. Save the skull and jaw. It was the only reason that they had a positive ID on the body at all, and Lestrade had still insisted on a DNA test.

Two brutal corpses in two days was nearly too much for him, and he hadn't even had his morning cup of coffee yet. There was no sign of forced entry, there was no sign of a struggle. Even the medical examiner was at a loss at how, exactly, someone had managed to remove the bones so carefully without tearing the flesh of the body. Only the tell tale sign of a slit throat, the five horrifying dolls, and two gold coins made Lestrade positive that this was connected.

Although, at this point, Lestrade had no idea what the murders were connected to. There were no connections between a single one of the victims. They seemed to have been chosen at random from a phone book, and god how he wished Sherlock was still alive and here to solve the case. He didn't think he could deal with another crime scene; whoever it was wasn't escalating the violence, but they were escalating the brutality of the desecration.

And there were still five other victims that they could only identify by the fact that their skin had been used as feathers on a bloody angel.

"My poor Tommy," the mother wailed, and Lestrade stared at the front door, wishing someone, anyone, would come and take over responsibility for the mother. He was sick of dealing with grieving relatives.

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><p>John stared at his phone for the umpteenth time that afternoon. No texts. No calls. No requests for him to go and help with anything at all. And it was in the middle of the cold season. Nearly every single patient he had seen that day had demanded an instant cure for the sniffles, the sneezes, and a sore throat. Except for the nice, very demented old woman that had accused him of alerting the lawn gnomes to her presence and demanding piles of gold to bribe them away.<p>

Her he had called a psychologist for, and was slightly sad to be rid of her. While her rantings had started a dull, throbbing headache, at least she hadn't demanded a cure. Just gold. And maybe a way to get rid of lawn gnomes.

Maybe the serial killer was trying to bribe lawn gnomes, John thought to himself. It was as likely as every other theory. He clearly wasn't making a woman suit after all. And while there was religious iconography surrounding gold coins on the eyes, there was none surrounding the removal of said eyes and replacing them with gold coins. And certainly not creepy little dolls staring at the corpses. That was a new one as well.

The phone rang pleasantly, and John sighed in relief.

"Please tell me you have another one," he smiled, not caring in the least what he sounded like.

"I'm afraid not, dear doctor," Mycroft said, and John could swear he heard the man _smirking_ on the other end of the line, "But I was wondering if you would be so kind as to free up your schedule for lunch. There's a lovely little Thai place near the clinic I thought you would enjoy."

John sighed. He knew that Mycroft was determined to 'care' for him, and he knew just how determined a Holmes could be when working on a project. But he still loathed the man, still blamed him for the death of his best friend. But, on the other hand as he sighed at looked at the computer. On the other hand, he would rather be a victim of Mycroft Holmes than sit in that office and listen to one more complaint about a common head cold, or a demand for medication that would do nearly nothing for anyone.

"In half an hour okay," John sighed.

"That would be perfect John," Mycroft replied happily, "And I do expect you to eat something. I know you had nothing but coffee today. And yesterday. And those two stale biscuits from the day before hardly count as a meal."

"Yes mother," John growled, and ended the call with a snap.

Oh, he would still attend the lunch, he would do anything to be out of the office, but he didn't have to be pleasant company. He didn't have to be company at all. It was rather hard to speak through a full mouth, after all. Unless Mycroft had taken to using his umbrella to protect himself against half chewed food as well.

And with that thought John went through the next two patients with a smile on his face, plotting how he was going to disturb and annoy the nosy politician he seemed to have inherited from his ex flat mate.

* * *

><p>"What do you mean <em>human<em>!" Lestrade growled at the medical examiner.

"I mean just that sir, the hair and faces are all of human origin," the mousy man whimpered, very afraid of the towering detective inspector that was menacing him.

Lestrade took a step back and sighed. He had still only had one cup of coffee, and hadn't even managed to snag a donut. He was in caffeine withdrawal, he was hungry, he was tired, and he was just so _angry_ about this entire case. How a person could be so precise and so sadistic was beyond his comprehension.

"The skin we can trace back to some of the victims," the mousy doctor said, still wary of Lestrade, "But the hair could have come from anywhere. Lots of places sell human hair."

"Yes, but lots of places don't teach how to make perfect, creepy little dolls," Lestrade snapped.

"The doll clothing too," the doctor spoke up, "It's all hand stitched. Whoever did this..."

"Whoever did this is a sadistic little fuck with some very fucking creepy talents," Lestrade growled, turning and leaving the room, his phone already out and dialed, "Donovan! Start searching for doll makers and doll repairers."

One way or another he was going to catch this man and see him put away for a very, very long time in a very dark, very small cell. Possibly lined with shattered glass and filled with the screams of howler monkeys if he could manage it.

And they still didn't know what he was doing with the eyes. Given how the remains of other corpses kept being used as decoration at the scenes of the more recent murders, he shuddered to think of what they might find next.


	6. Chapter 6

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Six

* * *

><p>John held the doll carefully in his hands, turning it and examining the flesh of its tiny, perfect face. Only the faces were flesh, the rest of the bodies were made up of standard parts. Porcelain hands and feet, delicate cloth bodies, poplar wood bone structure. But the heads were obviously not the original ones, the skulls hand carved wood, the hair sewn in, the skin... the skin grafted on with a surgical precision that beyond impressed John. He had, quite literally, never seen anything like it before in his life. Whoever did this was beyond skilled, they were <em>gifted<em>.

"Anything," Lestrade asked, his voice rough.

"She's _beautiful_," Jon whispered, gently placing her naked form down on the table and then looking at the clothing, "Whoever he is, he loved her. You don't do all of this for something you only have a passing fancy for."

Lestrade grunted, and rubbed at his arm. His nicotine patch must need refreshing John noted absently, Sherlock had often done the same thing without noticing. If only the dolls could tell them more about the killer. Nearly all of Lestrade's department was currently tracking down every doll maker and doll repairer in London, and more than a few of them tracking people through internet forums. Everyone seemed to have an odd hobby in this modern world.

But so far nothing. It didn't help that none of the dolls looked the same. There were delicate Asian princesses sitting next to athletic blond locks next to mousy haired book worms, complete with glasses, earrings, and other assorted details. And each one of them, down to the last earring stud, was either untraceable or hand crafted, especially the little masks. The horrifyingly beautiful hand sewn, hand embroidered little masks.

Sherlock would have _loved_ this John smiled. This was exactly the sort of case that the consulting detective was always longing for; perverse, psychotic, and brilliant. And now New Scotland Yard was lost without him.

"Nothing new since the Delson boy," John asked, delicately handling the blond curl of another doll.

"Two days. Either he has a schedule or we just haven't found the last two victims yet."

"Or he's preparing supplies for the next scene," John hummed, pulling out a pocket magnifier to look more closely at the stitches holding the dolls eyes open.

"I really don't want to think what he needs an entire skeleton and that many sets of eyes for," Lestrade sighed, looking up at the clock.

"The feathers," John started, his hand twitching suddenly, "Were any of them from males?"

"Hmm," Lestrade asked, looking at his watch and tapping the face, "No, all female."

"He didn't take any skin from the Delson victim, only from the female victims," John pointed out, placing the doll down carefully on the evidence table, "Which means he needed males bones _specifically_. He didn't even pose the body, and the dolls there were simple, almost plain, compared to the other scenes."

"If you go off about how he's taking out some sort of revenge on women because he was hurt earlier in life I'll box your ears," Lestrade sighed, "Our psychoanalysts have already been all over this case with a fine tooth comb. Damn!"

Lestrade glared at his watch and stopped tapping it. It was pointless, the mechanism was dead. And he didn't even have the time to stop off and pick up another cheap replacement. He hated cases like this. They made every point of his life a living hell.

"I don't think he hates the women," John said, "I think he likes them. He's _kind_ to them, in his own fashion. At least he kills them before he... plays with them."

"No sexual assault," Lestrade noted absently.

"I didn't mean that kind of play," John glared, "I meant _play_. As in plays with dolls. And he's damn good with his dolls, whoever he is."

"One of the good docs thinks it's a she," Lestrade helpfully added, "The attention to detail, the dolls themselves, the clothes, the careful work, the physical attributes of the victims. But, until we actually have something..." Lestrade trailed off.

"Lunch," John offered, noticing how the man was studying the clock.

Lestrade nodded, and led John out of the evidence room, checking, very carefully, that the doors were closed and properly locked after them. Reporters had been trying to get in all day, and it wasn't going to be on his head if pictures of creepy dolls ended up all over the evening news or the morning paper.

"They've started calling him the Doll Doctor," Lestrade commented, nodding to Donovan on the way out. She just smiled weakly back, her desk piled high with paperwork.

Serial killers tortured more than just their victims.

"I'm glad I managed to avoid that course at Bart's," John chuckled.

"God, if you had been a serial killer and had Sherlock on your side I would have throttled the both of you myself. You would have been uncatchable."

John laughed out loud at that, and Lestrade smiled. The death was no longer a subject of agonizing pain with either of them. They were moving on with their lives. Now they could joke about Sherlock, and, for the first time in a long time, John actually felt like the dull, empty throbbing in his chest would get better. There was hope that it would get better, one day at a time. And that, alone, was worth laughing and smiling with a friend over lunch with.

* * *

><p>Mycroft was seated in his armchair when he returned to his apartment that evening. No tea, no food, just a pleasantly smiling Mycroft, sitting there in his living room, waiting for him as if it was the most normal thing in the world.<p>

And, John thought morosely, it actually was becoming rather normal. It nearly would have been odd if Mycroft had decided not to intrude upon his privacy. John may still blame him for Sherlock's death, but he absolutely loathed the man for refusing to just leave him alone. He could have happily lived without having the older gentleman rub it into his face every time he saw him or he did something: Sherlock is dead, he's not coming back.

"You could have at least cleaned if you were going to go to all the trouble of breaking in," John noted, looking at the empty tea cup still next to the kitchen sink. There were no dishes, John wasn't even sure he had anything but bread in the apartment to begin with.

"You've eaten," Mycroft said, almost sounding genuinely surprised.

"Yes, I caught lunch with Lestrade," John sighed, sinking into the chair opposite the invader, "We're working on the Doll Doctor case, remember?"

"Hmm, yes," Mycroft nodded, "Any leads?"

"Just that he's a sick fuck," John replied, leaning back and staring at the wallpaper behind Mycroft.

A most hideous mustard yellow, peeling around the corners. There was no way it had ever been considered pretty or fashionable, but it was probably once the cheapest wallpaper on the market. John wondered who had made the decision to just go for the cheapest instead of spending a few pennies more on something that didn't constantly look like it should be taken outside and burned. He wondered briefly who had made the decision in a company to make the nasty product available on the public market in the first place.

"That does seem to go without saying," Mycroft smiled, "But it's good to see you getting on, John. I was beginning to worry so."

And, with a well practiced turn of the foot, Mycroft was standing, leaning ever so gently on his umbrella, and walking toward the door. John stared after him for a moment, before opening his mouth.

"I still blame you, you know," he said out loud, "I'll always blame you for what happened to him."

Mycroft paused, his back unreadable.

"I know," he said softly, and then was out the door and into London.


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Seven

* * *

><p>"It's time for bed, Susan darling," the woman smiled, turning off the television.<p>

Her daughter, sprawled out on the carpet in her insanely cheerful pink pajamas, covered only in the most overwrought ballet designs imaginable, groaned and make puppy dog eyes at her mother. It was a fight they had every evening, and it made the woman laugh and remember having such pleading arguments with her own mother at such a young age.

"But Mom, just another hour please," Susan wheedled, "All the other kids get to stay up until nine!"

"Well I'm not the other children's mother, I'm your mother," she smiled, "And your bedtime is eight. Now, come on, you have school in the morning. Did you remember to brush your teeth?"

Susan nodded her head glumly and started walking slowly up the stairs, still pouting. Her mother rolled her eyes but allowed her the tiny bit of petulance. She knew that, in a few years time, Susan would be running up the stairs and slamming the door while screaming at her mother for ruining her life for some little thing or another.

"Goodnight Susan," her mother called up, "I love you."

"Love you too mommy," Susan called back, and then shut her bedroom door behind her.

Susan waited a few minutes, listening to see if her mother was going to come up and tuck her in. It didn't happen often anymore, she was a big girl that didn't need tucking in and was against it, but sometimes her mother was just too silly not to. Quiet, and the sound of the television being clicked on. Susan smiled widely, and quietly opened the closet door and retrieved a battered flashlight and a copy of 'The Hobbit' from beneath her dirty clothes.

Her mother had said she had to go to bed, she never said anything about having to _sleep._

Susan pulled the covers up over her head, leaving a gap where fresh air could get in, and quickly turned the pages to where she had been last in the exciting adventure. Biblo and the dwarves had just been saved, and she couldn't wait to read what happened next. She was getting near to the part with the dragon, she loved dragons, and she was desperate to see how the great fire breathing lizard was written.

As Susan quickly lost herself in the exciting world of Middle Earth, she didn't notice the shadow that passed over the blanket. She didn't hear the soft footsteps whispering quietly over the soft carpet next to her bed, and she didn't see the fingers at the edge of the blanket.

Suddenly the blanket was torn up over her head, light streaming out from the flashlight, and Susan froze as she stared up at the stranger. As she was taking in a breath to scream, a hand grabbed her, and a knife slid gracefully across her throat. Grasping at the injury, Susan was dead in moments, blood smeared angrily across her book.

The stranger sighed quietly, opening up a fine leather bag that had been hidden under the bed, and began to get to work.

Early the next morning, just as the sun was barely beginning to rise above the rooftops of neighboring buildings, the yawning, dark haired woman knocked gently on her daughter's bedroom door.

"Susan, it's time to get up for school," she muttered, thinking that she really should have gotten to bed earlier herself.

There was silence from within the bedroom.

"Susan," she sighed, opening the door with another yawn, "No time to play games, it's really time to..."

Her voice cut off as she stared at the scene delicately lay out before her. Her Susan, her precious, ballet obsessed Susan, was dressed up in a gorgeous blue empire dress, her hair spun up in a trailing bun, hair spilling out across tiny pearls and flowers. She was laying there so peacefully on the gorgeous white and gold canopy bed that had most definitely _not_ been there the previous evening that she wouldn't have even guessed that her daughter had been dead if it hadn't been for the sewn closed eyes and red smile slashed across her young throat.

The woman dropped to the ground, screaming.

* * *

><p>John sighed, rubbing at his shoulder as he stood outside the house, in the rain, watching Lestrade chain smoke through his third cigarette. Lestrade rolled his eyes as John glared at him, and, with a massive inhale, finished the third cigarette hastily and rubbed the embers out on the bottom of his shoe.<p>

"Don't give me that," he growled, "Donovan's been on me already."

"Good," John glared, "What happened to the patches?"

"Nine year old girl inside is what happened to the patches," Lestrade growled, opening the door and leading John out of the rain.

"Bad?"

"Sure it won't be the worst. Her heart's missing."

"What," John turned and asked, shocked, "You mean?"

"Yeah, I mean it's gone. Anything not covered by the dress is skinned. The good Doctor turned out a nasty piece of work with her."

John sighed, climbing the stairs and passing other officers slowly. He almost wished he wasn't involved with the New Scotland Yarn anymore. Seeing these things, these sights, was doing nothing for his sleep or his nightmares. Of course, it could be argued, that his mind alone was the cause of everything, and it was these murders that were keeping his head above water. But he dismissed that out of hand. He was in mourning over a friend, his best friend, he wasn't some love sick fourteen year old girl that was going to off himself in an instant just because he was gone. No matter what one Mycroft Holmes thought.

"Jesus," John breathed, looking at the scene.

"New bed, not her clothes, and five dolls. He's getting better at this," Anderson commented from the side, studying one of the dolls without touching her.

"Her poor mother," John sighed, "The body already gone?"

"Yeah, the mother's staying with a sister, but she didn't hear a thing. He's quick and he's quiet," Lestrade sighed, "No other parts left here. He might be saving up for something big."

"I feel sorry for whoever he's really after," John sighed, looking at the bed closely, "Whoever he is, he's not poor. These are expensive sheets. And to buy a new bed just for a single scene. Jack the Ripper's elusive apprentice."

"Jack the Ripper went after whores," Lestrade reminded him, "And he didn't play with his toys."

"No," John paused, "He didn't."

The rest of the evening was spent silently studying, analyzing, and then looking over a smiling, heartless corpse in the morgue. John was sad to say that it was, by far, the most interesting and exciting night out he had had in a while. He didn't even complain when Mycroft's car, sans one British politician, picked him up and chauffeured him home. That was almost a part of the ritual of investigating a crime scene now, and it certainly saved on his pocket book.

* * *

><p>"An eyelash," John snorted, "An eyelash is hardly anything to by. Hell, until you get more you might as well assume he planted it himself."<p>

John nodded, listening to Lestrade over his battered old cell phone, smiling happily. They had managed, after two days of combing over the latest scene with magnifying glasses and a fine tooth comb, to find an unidentified eyelash. Certainly a boon, it could open up entire leads of investigation. Or it could be a plant from another scene, or a careless tech. But at least it was more than nothing.

"Yes, yes," John nodded, fighting with his keys in the lock.

The downside to a cheap apartment in a bad part of town was that something was forever working just enough not right that it was aggravating. Today, it would seem, his keys were deciding to be a bit stingy with the lock. With a grunt and a sigh, the ex army medic managed to force the door open, and then stare slack jawed at the scene in his living room.

"Lestrade, I need you to get over here," he whispered, his bad leg beginning to quiver ever so slightly, "And I think it might be best if you bring a gun."

* * *

><p>AN: Updates might be slowing down some from here on out, or, at least, for a few days. I've managed to pick up a nasty bug and it's playing with my mind in fairly unpleasant ways. It doesn't help I'm managing to sleep sixteen hours without noticing either. The story isn't close to ending, but it may just be slowing down.<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Eight

* * *

><p>John was sitting on the wet, cold, stone steps outside his apartment when Mycroft's car pulled up, and Mycroft got out, his tell tale umbrella missing. John looked up at the older man, and shook his head. It was bad. Even compared to the other scenes it was <em>bad<em>. He had never seen anything like it before, and it was clearly aimed specifically at him. And now, not thirty minutes later, nearly before the police, Mycroft was here.

And John wasn't sure if he wanted to punch him or hug him.

"John," Mycroft said sadly, standing before him.

John sighed. There wasn't much to say. There wasn't anything to say, really. How do you ask a person to crash at their place because your apartment, your _home,_ is no longer safe, no longer anything but a strange serial killer's doll house? Even all his time with Sherlock had never prepared him for a situation like this.

"Thought you would be here twenty minutes ago," John said with a stilted smile, "Lestrade beat you here."

"There were... matters to attend to," he said gruffly, adjusting his suit jacket as if insulted, "And I knew you would be safe with them."

Lestrade exited the front door and stood behind John, shaking his head slowly. He pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, lit it quickly, and took a desperate inhale.

"It's hell in there," Lestrade gave as way of explanation, "Our little doll maker has upgraded from toys to... hell, I don't even know what to call it."

"Hell is a damn good start. He got the wrong jacket though. Sherlock's had a red button hole," John whispered, rubbing at his eyes.

Mycroft's right eyebrow inched upward at the conversation between the two men.

"Sherlock's jacket?" he asked politely.

"Your little spies didn't send you pictures and layouts of the scene already," John asked, honestly surprised, "You're losing your touch Mycroft."

"Despite what you might think of me, John," Mycroft sighed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, "I am not, actually, all knowing and all seeing. Even my eyes are blind to some things."

"You're not the only one," Lestrade snorted.

John glared back up at Lestrade, and then stood up slowly, stretching out limbs stiff from the London night. He looked at Mycroft, and shook his head. No, the politician wasn't all knowing and all seeing. He was just a man. An extremely intelligent, extremely well connected man, but just a man none the less. It was insane of him to expect everything of him. And, in that moment, John Watson realized that maybe he was beginning to forgive Mycroft Holmes for the simple sin of being human.

And that made him feel a little bit better about the gruesome night.

"You might as well come and see," John sighed, "My room clear to grab a few things?"

Lestrade nodded, "Yeah, he looks to have left that alone, just the living room was saved for the tea party."

"Thank god for small favors," John growled, brushing by the policeman and disappearing into the open door.

Lestrade paused for a second, eying Mycroft warily, and then opened his mouth. He closed it again, thought a few more moments, irritating the elder Holmes brother, and then decided on his words very carefully.

"It's not him, whatever it looks like. And the message was for John. But try not to scream."

Mycroft's eyebrow rose again as he followed Lestrade into the living room, and then he stopped, desperately wishing he had his umbrella to at least catch him as he stumbled. He had assumed it was bad, anything that would shake one John Watson to the point of collapse would have to be bad, but he had not expected the expertly detailed devastation that had been laid out so perfectly before him. Whoever this Doll Doctor was, he was an expert at his craft, and he hated John Watson down to the very fiber of his being.

There was no other explanation for the hellish scene in the living room.

A body was delicately strung up in the stiff chair opposite John's own, black curly hair a dedicated mess, jacket collar popped in an attention drawing way, and a book casually open in his lap. If Mycroft hadn't know any better, if the eyes hadn't been sewn shut and two eye balls placed delicately on a tea plate at the figure's elbow, he would have simply said that Sherlock was just reading a book. Nothing odd in that.

But Sherlock Holmes wasn't sitting in John Watson's living room reading a book. Sherlock Holmes was long since dead and buried and nothing more than a pile of rotting flesh.

Laid out upon the table was a delicate spread of tea cakes set out upon fine lace doilies, and a remarkably well preserved, and dare he say candied, human heart as the main attraction. Mycroft nearly applauded the killer's sense of taste, that tea set was beautiful and quite pricey. Even he rarely used one just as nice, and only then on special occasions.

"Your place is safe, right," Lestrade asked, moving aside as a tech entered with another camera.

"Much safer than here," Mycroft muttered, still taking in the scene, "Where are the dolls?"

"Down by Sherlock's feet," Lestrade said crisply, "Adorable little things, like he's just reading them a fairy tale. Even better: the entire book is John's blog, hand written. Gorgeous hand writing. We think the leather is human."

"At least you know where the bones went," John spoke crisply, coming up behind Lestrade suddenly, an overnight bag packed and slung over his shoulder, "And at least one set of eyes."

"Saint Lucia plucked out her own eyes rather than deal with an unacceptable suitor," Mycroft said softly, "Maybe they don't think you were good enough for my dear brother."

John snorted, staring over at the life sized doll of Sherlock Holmes.

"We weren't shagging," John pointed out, "And I wasn't good enough for him."

Mycroft sighed and watched John walk out the door and toward the car, his limp only slight. It was always there, buried deep in the back of his mind, and it took a shock like this to bring it out. But Mycroft wouldn't begrudge anyone a reaction to a scene like this. Even he would have given in to a limp if he had one.

"Hey," Lestrade caught his arm, "Keep him safe. He may not be important to you, but he's important to a few of us."

"Of course," Mycroft smiled, looking back at the Detective Inspector, "But you're mistaken Lestrade. He's important to me as well."

Lestrade nodded, and then rubbed at his neck with a sigh. It was going to be a very long night.

* * *

><p>AN: From here on out things get a little... brutal.<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Nine

* * *

><p>John stared at the flat, taking in the modern lines and nearly sterile environment. He had to admit to himself, it was nothing like where he expected Mycroft to live. It was modern, not an antique to be seen. He wasn't even sure if the wood was real, or if it was some faux impersonation. Not that there was much wood to fake, most everything seemed to be made of metal.<p>

"You seem surprised, John," Mycroft smirked, watching the shorter man staring at the leather couch in the living room as if it might attack.

"It's not..." John wasn't sure how to finish that sentence.

It was one thing to be rude to Mycroft in his own own apartment, but it was another thing entirely to be rude to a man that was kind enough to take him in while his own home was stripped down to the very nails in an investigation. John Watson may have been many things, but rude was rarely one of them. Especially now, he insisted to himself.

"A giant villa surrounded by peacocks and miles of delicately kept lawns," Mycroft offered.

John nodded blankly, looking back at his host.

"That would be a more apt description of the Holmes Manor, but I find that estates draw attention in the city," Mycroft chuckled, gesturing down a hallway to show John to his room.

"So there is a giant Holmes estate somewhere," John asked, looking at the sterile, standard watercolors hanging in the hallway.

"Yes, far out in the country where work would be quite impossible. I'm not fond of it, and neither is Sherlock, but it's kept up for family use if need be."

Mycroft stopped, opening a door, and led John into a room. And John had to admit to himself that he was impressed. It wasn't the luxurious standard he was fearing, it was just a bedroom. A plain bed, a dresser in one corner, a desk in the other. A bedside table with a lamp that could have come from any standard furniture store. He could sleep here without feeling guilty or like he was robbing the Queen. Probably a lot better than he slept at home.

"I'm afraid most of the food is frozen," Mycroft apologized when he saw John finish his preliminary investigation, "I very rarely have the time to spare cooking and the such."

"But you have time to spare for me," John pointed out.

"That's different. Food reheats, bodies rarely do."

John closed his eyes and clenched his fists at the off putting joke. He swore he wouldn't hit his host. He wouldn't hit Mycroft bloody Holmes for having the gall to be insensitive after bringing him home from a serial killer's play scene. But, as he turned to argue, to say _anything_ to the other man, he saw Mycroft studying him intently.

Of course. It had been a test.

"Did I pass," John snapped, glaring.

"Surprisingly well," Mycroft nodded, and left John alone in the room.

John sighed and dropped his bag on the bed. It was going to be a hell of a night, he decided.

* * *

><p>John stared down at the body in the morgue. He wasn't even sure if he should call it a body properly, or a doll. Yes, it contained some of the basics of a human corpse; there were bones, and skin, and muscle tissue. But they were the bones, skin, and muscle tissue of a dozen different people, most already having been through this same morgue.<p>

"The skull is carved wood," Lestrade sighed, "How the hell he managed to get it to look so much like him though..."

"Because he's good," John glared at the false Sherlock's face, "And we still don't have a fucking clue who he is."

John trace the outline of one of the stitched eyes with gloved fingers, feeling the traces of thread and cold skin. Whoever was doing this was amazingly good. He had gotten every scar and mark of Sherlock's face exact down to nearly the pores, even the same crazed hair that was always so desperate to escape while they had been dashing down streets on a case.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Seeing his friend dead wasn't new, John was sad to admit. He had seen this before. He had seen _worse_ than this before. This was not new to him, not Sherlock's body on a cold metal table. No, the worst of the desecration were the delicate letters, the stinging words, carved into this doll's chest: Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.

"Titus Andronicus," Lestrade added as he watched John stare at the words, "One of the characters would dig up bodies and carve into their chests to torture friends and family."

"Sadistic," John spat, glaring at the marred flesh.

There were hardly even scars where the different sheets of once warm flesh had been sewn carefully together. And they all matched, every stretch across ribs, every finger. That was odd, especially considering how pale Sherlock had been.

"The entire goddamn play is sadistic. Probably a favorite of our little creep," Lestrade growled, playing with his watch once more.

"The flesh has all been treated," John pointed out, lifting a hand to turn it over, running a finger over the arching lines, "It's all the _same_."

"We're looking into bleaching treatments, professionals and whatnot," Lestrade sighed, "But that, and the stitching, and the carved skull, and the dolls... we should have this guy in a day, but he's just slipping through our fingers. It's like he's damn near invisible."

"The invisible man did go insane at the end," John pointed out.

"The invisible man was a piece of fiction," Lestrade growled, pacing away from the table, "There should at least be a paper trail somewhere! You don't just keep frozen parts in the freezer and expect no one to notice!"

John nodded, biting his tongue on reminding the Detective Inspector that Sherlock had often done just that. Well, not quite. John had always at least _noticed_ that there were body parts in the freezer. He had just learned to turn a blind eye and ignore them after a while. Sherlock had never changed.

Donovan interrupted his train of thought, rushing through the morgue doors, panting as if she had run the entire way. She probably had if it was important. With all the metal and equipment in the area cell signals were nonexistent at the best of times.

"There's been another one," she said, looking sadly at John, "You're not going to like it."

John sighed. The problem was that, deep down, John did actually like this. As Sherlock had so happily put when he had first met him, it was like Christmas.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry for the delay. It wasn't the fever that actually got me, it was two solid days of a migraine. Yech.<p>

Also, for those interested, I high suggest 'Titus Andronicus', Shakespeare's first play. The Julie Taymor version is just brilliant. Although, do be warned, it is a very brutal play that contains murder, rape, torture, violence, and sex. A very R rated play.


	10. Chapter 10

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Ten

* * *

><p>John stared at the scene, his left hand tightly fisted, and resisted the urge to be physically ill. Donovan had said that he wouldn't like it, but he had never thought he would see <em>this<em> spread out before him. He had never thought he would see anything as horrible and gut wrenching as the night before.

And god, god he had been so wrong. This was a thousand times worse.

Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, two hands around his shoulders, leading him away from the crime scene, did nothing to interrupt the flow of thoughts through his head. That was _him_ back there. That his was his corpse. It was his body that was brutalized and desecrated.

That was John Watson on that couch. John Watson was dead.

"John," Lestrade said slowly, snapping his fingers in front of John's face, "John, it was just another one of those dolls. Nothing more. John, can you hear me?"

"Yeah," John nodded slowly, taking in a deep breath, "Yeah, yeah, I understand," he whispered.

Lestrade nodded, and led him out of the house and had him sit down on the steps outside. John nearly laughed, it was the second time in two days that he was sitting on damp steps, his entire life shattered in front of his eyes. Although, this time it was worse than just seeing Sherlock. Sherlock was a corpse, John _knew_ Sherlock was a corpse. But seeing himself in there? That was far, far worse.

"He... he hasn't killed another male victim," John whispered, his hands at his shoulders, trying to keep warm, "Where would he have gotten the bones? Has to be another doll. You need to look for other male victims."

"Hey, can we get a blanket over here," Lestrade shouted as John began to shiver and shake.

"Too fast for him to have done this last night, would have taken time," John's teeth began to chatter, his mind slowing down as he struggled against something mentally, "Had to have had this planned out. Had to have had this _all_ planned out."

"Yeah John," Lestrade nodded, taking the orange shock blanket from the paramedic and wrapping it around John carefully, "We'll get him, don't worry. He won't get you, wouldn't dream of allowing it."

"Would be better if Sherlock was here," John slurred as he felt his eyes began to close, "He would have gotten him."

"Yeah, yeah he would have," Lestrade said.

John smiled at the thought of Sherlock running through the streets, chasing yet another serial killer, and let his eyes close and his world go black.

* * *

><p>John opened his eyes with a groan and stared at the ceiling above him. White, immaculate, and very, very posh in an odd, understated way. Not a standard hospital then. Not the bed back at Mycroft's, that's for sure. He would have at least recognized that. And he very much doubted that Mycroft would have been annoying enough to have an IV put in.<p>

John sighed, and brought his free arm, his right arm, up and over his eyes. He had passed out at a crime scene like some sort of queasy civilian. Yes things had been _bad_, but he should have at least been able to keep on his feet. He was never going to live this down.

The door creaked open slowly, and John turned to stare at the visitor.

"Was all this really necessary? I passed out, I wasn't shot," John growled.

Mycroft smiled cheekily.

"John, you went into shock," he pointed out, "You did not merely pass out. Given that your state of health was in doubt, it was thought best to bring you to medical facilities. I might also point out that you have been unconscious for nearly six hours, and your iron levels were a tad low."

Six hours? John swallowed at that. Maybe, just maybe, he had needed a hospital. But that didn't mean he had to admit it. It was still embarrassing to say the least, and he highly regretted it ever having happened in the first place. He was a doctor, dammit, he should be able to handle a simple crime scene. He hadn't gone into shock and passed out when he had come home to the look-alike corpse of his dead roommate that had been set up in his living room.

"So you saw what was there as well then," John sighed, trying to decide if he should sit up.

The problem with being tired in comfortable beds was the lazy desire to never sit up.

"Yes," Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, "I saw the scene. From photos of course. I'm rather surprised that Lestrade allowed you near such a scene."

"Lestrade didn't know," John pointed out, "We showed up together, it was Donovan that showed us."

Mycroft's eyes tightened for a moment, and John was suddenly very worried that he had just sentenced one poor Sally Donovan to a tiny cement cell with no light. Though, given what he had seen at the scene, the absolute graphic horror of the _thing_ that was there, he was slightly inclined to be angry at the woman. But not to the point of thinking being at the receiving end of Mycroft Holmes' wrath a worthy punishment.

"Lay off, whatever you're thinking," John sighed, "Save your fury for the bastard that's doing this. He deserves whatever you were thinking right now, and worse."

Mycroft nodded, his finger tapping for a moment on the umbrella handle. Though, to be honest, John wasn't quite sure what he would do to the Doll Doctor once he was caught. He wasn't sure what he would want to happen to the man. But, even if he could not imagine it himself, it was nice to know there was someone who could think of far worse things.

"Am I free to leave, or am I to be kept here under lock and key," John said, biting his tongue to keep from adding the phrase 'like a doll' to the end of the sentence.

He had already seen how someone who thought of him as a doll would care for him. And that was not a pleasant thought.

"Yes, we may leave now," Mycroft nodded, approaching the bed to help John up as the shorter man yawned, "And you will finally get at least eight hours of sleep."

"I don't think my body could even handle eight hours of sleep at once," John smiled, removing the IV with practiced ease, and wincing as his foot touched the floor.

He hadn't thought he was that tired. Mycroft, ever observant, smiled politely and allowed John to use him as a makeshift crutch as they made their way out of the hospital. He was glad that he had just passed out while sitting, and the hospital had left him the decency of his own clothes. That saved him from being worried about flashing Mycroft when they had been leaving.

"I," John paused as the two men carefully maneuvered into the discreet black car, "Thank you for this, Mycroft. All of this."

"Of course, John," Mycroft nodded to the driver, "Your safety is of the utmost importance to me."

John shook his head and smiled, staring out into the bright London night. He couldn't believe that Mycroft bloody Holmes was now acting as his knight in shining armor. Would wonders never cease.


	11. Chapter 11

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Eleven

* * *

><p>Mycroft stared at the paper in front of him. Frowning. Deeply. It was not what he had been expecting from the report, and he was deeply disappointed in the investigators. He had let the New Scotland Yard and John have their fun, running around the city chasing a sadistic serial killer, but now the time for games was over. While yes, people had been hurt before, it had crossed the line into personal two crimes scenes ago.<p>

So Mycroft Holmes, an insignificant member of the British government, had actually deigned to step in and have the matter cleared up. It was one thing to remind him of his brother's death, it was another thing entirely to threaten a person that he considered a friend. Well, nearly a friend. Either way, they had decided that threatening one John Watson was worth their time, and Mycroft had decided it was now worth his time to put a stop to their little games.

Only he was as clueless as John and the entire New Scotland Yard as to who it was. There was nothing on the CCTV, no evidence left at the crime scenes, no tiny detail that was overlooked. For once, everyone was being very thorough, and he was just as clueless as the rest of them. He had searches going for anyone involved in doll crafting, and had discovered a rather morbid group that haunted the internet and was completely devoted to making very disturbing, very life like dolls. And he was having every single person involved in all of said forums investigated. Morticians, mortician's apprentices, make up artists, hospital workers, morgue workers especially, doll crafters, wood carvers, and everyone who had purchased more than a pound of human hair in the last three years.

With all of the power of the British government at his disposal, Mycroft had expected to have the killer sequestered to a tiny, cold, dark, cement cell within three days. Instead he was being told that the results of the investigation were the same on all sides: nothing. A broad spectrum of exact details that tied no one to a single crime. He had thought the aspect of Sherlock's doll and the targeting of John would narrow down the search, but he had severely underestimated just how popular John's blog had been.

Everyone had read the exciting adventures of one Sherlock Holmes. And, if they hadn't before, they certainly had once his brother had committed suicide. He might as well drag the Queen out into the streets and accuse her of the murders for the good it would have done him. Mycroft sighed, steepled his fingers, and leaned onto the desk, silencing the growl that had built up in his throat.

Today was not his day. And, given his rash of bad luck, he was more than slightly worried as to what the night, and the following days, would bring. At this rate John Watson was a dead man. And, no matter how he wondered about the odd sentiment, Mycroft Holmes did not like that. And what Mycroft Holmes did not like he changed until the results were ones that he did approve of.

Mycroft glared at the tea cup sitting next to his elbow on the desk. His tea had gone cold.

* * *

><p>John took in a deep breath, and nodded as Lestrade looked him over carefully. He had to do this, John told himself. It wasn't about just not appearing weak, it was about himself. The Doll Doctor had left a message. A very clear, concise message, and John knew that he best not ignore such a message.<p>

John was next. Maybe he wouldn't be the next corpse, or even the one after, but he was the target. All of this was for him now. All of these people, these innocent men, women, and children were victims to show him that the Doll Doctor was coming for him. In a way, John found it thrilling and exciting. But, no matter how much he loved the adrenaline that coursed through his system at the thought of such and adversary, he couldn't dismiss the sorrow for all those who had fallen to send him the note.

Their blood, innocent and red, was used to mark out that words that the Doll Doctor was coming for him. And it was not going to be the silent, painless end that the others had all had the benefit to experience. John swallowed sharply, shaking his head to clear his thoughts, and held out his hand.

Lestrade nodded, and placed the folio in his outstretched fingers.

"You don't have to do this," he said again, "No one would blame you. I wouldn't want to see this if I were you."

John shook his head, "I can't run away from this, Greg. This is my life, and I'm not going to spend it hiding under the blankets at Mycroft's every time someone decides to threaten me."

Lestrade snorted, "A bit more than just a threat, John. Especially given his talents."

John nodded. He knew. Anyone who was that good at taking apart and putting back together a human corpse would be more than just simply deadly with a blade. They would be an expert at undoing a person's mind with delicate torture. The threat the Doll Doctor had left had not been a hollow one. He was serious, and he was more than capable of doing far worse than he was sure any of them could imagine.

The two men were tense, the silence deafening as John stared at the folder. It wasn't the full scene report, he knew that. He could easily have access to it, he had been there after all, but it was just the photos he had requested to see. He wanted to see what the Doll Doctor had done to him, his doll, rather than read about it. It would cement the desire to not run away, but stand and fight. John Watson may be a healer, but, deep down, he enjoyed being the soldier far more. And this wasn't a case of strategic retreat, it was him standing his ground, and looking death straight on, and refusing to go.

John opened the folder, and stared at the first photo.

The first photo was nearly innocent. The front door. It wasn't the original door to the house where the scene had been staged, it was new. And, unfortunately, there were not CCTV cameras in the suburban area to show who had come and replaced the door. But, outside of the address numbers, it was a near exact replica on the front door of 221B. Black, wood, and weathered. Even scratched where the CIA had broken in and threatened Mrs Hudson.

John sighed, and turned to the next photo. Lestrade already knew about the door. He had certainly seen the original enough times to recognize it instantly, crime scene or not.

The second photo was not as pleasant. It showed the entire living room in its gory glory. The John Watson doll, exact down to the detail of the sweater that John knew he would burn rather than ever wear again, hair perfectly colored, and John was sure the autopsy would show even matching scars across the body. But there his doll was, staged gracefully along the couch, throat slashed just like all the other victims. Only this one had been stitched together rather than skinned for spare materials.

And there, along the wall behind him, was written the message in elegant ink: 'Betrayer. Let your sorrow not die!'. Simple in elegance, though the details were different. Where the others had all had coins, John's doll had none at all. He was not worthy to pay the fare into the afterlife it seemed.

The five little dolls, neat and delicately feminine versions of Sherlock, were sitting on the coffee table, staring angrily at him. Whoever did this had not been happy. They had been meticulous and careful, but they had also been very, very angry. And John knew that this is what would bring the killer out of hiding and allow them to catch him: he hated John Watson more than he valued his own safety. He would make a mistake, and he would make that mistake while targeting the ex-Army doctor.

And that, at least, brought a smile to John's face. They would catch him because of this. Of that there was no doubt.

* * *

><p>AN: And now things start to get very, very fun.<p> 


	12. Chapter 12

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Twelve

* * *

><p>Mycroft was pleasantly surprised to come home to the smell of a home cooked meal, and to see John sitting in the living room with what seemed to be every photo from every Doll Doctor case spread before him. He was intimately familiar with the case himself by now, but he had assumed John was as well. But there was never anything wrong with review, perhaps John's eyes would catch something that none of the rest of them would ever catch simply because it was a message aimed at John, and not for anyone else.<p>

"Roast in the oven," John said without looking up, waving his hand at the kitchen, "Veggies in the pan as well, help yourself."

"Thank you John," Mycroft smiled, "It is nice to come home to actual food once in a while."

John just hummed in agreement, never looking away from the pictures spread out before him. Mycroft smiled and shook his head, heading toward the delicious scent of an actual home cooked meal. It was rather adorable, in a sadistic way. Had the photos been research for a paper or an article instead of brutal crime scene, it actually would have been endearing.

Mycroft heaped a plate with vegetables and just two thin slices of meat, always mindful of his diet, and sat down in the living room across from John. John ignored him, his eyes still roaming the still of one of the infamous dolls. Horrible little things, Mycroft thought, especially the details of the eyes and masks.

"Anything new," Mycroft asked, sipping on a glass of water.

"At least five victims unaccounted for," John replied, putting down the photo he was studying and leaning back on the couch, "There are five bodies out there that have been skinned and at least one is missing bones, and no one has reported them. How does a murder like that go unreported?"

"Maybe they weren't victims," Mycroft offered, thinking it over slowly, "Maybe they were bodies scheduled for cremation, and the Doctor had to rush to get parts. Maybe they're close to the Doctor, and the Doctor has murdered them and not reported his own activities."

John smiled, his eyes lighting up at that last piece of information, "Mycroft, you're a genius, I could kiss you!"

Mycroft blushed, and played with a few peas with his fork.

"Lestrade needs to search for missing persons as well. Five people connected to one person don't just go missing without someone noticing. Wives, sisters, daughters," John laughed, jumping up, "There has to be something. Someone would have noticed at least that!"

He dashed out of the room, grabbing his coat, and Mycroft sighed as he heard the front door slam. He would give it at least an hour before John realized it was the middle of the night, and even detectives needed to sleep sometime. But he was right, there was no way that five corpses with those specific injuries would go unnoticed. They would be reported, even if they were just homeless vagrants. Someone was hiding something important somewhere, and that, too, was a clue.

He got out his cell phone and pressed speed dial with practice ease. It was going to be a very long night for someone, he was just glad it was not himself. At least there was warm food to enjoy while he waited for his guest to return.

"Yes, do a complete search for five missing persons, connected. Most likely a minimum of two family members, possibly all."

He hung up, let his head fall back, and sighed. He hated leg work.

* * *

><p>John dragged himself back through the front door of Mycroft's flat three hours later, surprised to see the lights still on. He had been given an earful by Lestrade about actually needing rest, and had been threatened with detainment if he didn't leave and actually get some rest himself. He couldn't blame Lestrade really, but he would have thought the man would have been a little more appreciative of his epiphany. Sherlock was right, no one truly appreciated thinking.<p>

"Ah, I expected you back two hours ago," Mycroft yawned from the couch where John had been previously.

John shook his head, and flopped down gracelessly next to the tired man, leaning back in the luxurious leather. He had to hand it to him, for someone who was apparently never home, he had the most deliciously comfortable furniture. Even the guest bed was divine.

"Lestrade threatened to arrest me and throw away the key if I didn't head home and get some sleep," John explained.

"I'm unsurprised," Mycroft smiled, gently tossing the photo he had been analyzing onto the table with the rest of the mess, "Most people tend to react that way when you wake them up in the middle of the night."

"He could have at least thanked me and gotten the search started," John sulked.

"I already took the liberty of doing that for you," Mycroft smiled, "I thought it prudent to extend the search base and criteria, and I have access to better data than New Scotland Yard."

"Thank you Mycroft," John smiled tiredly, yawning deeply, "The sooner we catch this bastard the better. I don't want to see any more corpses. Just a good old fashioned robbery or something would be nice," he mumbled, his eyes shutting as he began to fall asleep.

Mycroft, exhausted as well, just shook his head. The both of them were being run ragged by this entire fiasco. And while Mycroft was used to it, John was not taking it as well. But, then again, he was being personally threatened, and that would disturb anyone far more than they would be used to he supposed.

The red haired man turned in surprise as John's head hit his shoulder. The doctor must be far more tired than he thought if he had actually fallen asleep. But, Mycroft stifled another yawn, sleep sounded very, very good. The entire world was constantly being a nuisance, and there was always at least one other country having a childish squabble with another. It would be good to just shut his eyes and actually _sleep_ for a while without interruption. John, it seemed, was full of amazingly good ideas.

And so Mycroft gave in, let his eyes shut, and fell asleep on the white leather couch in his living room that he very, very rarely had the chance to sit on, with an ex-Army doctor leaning against his side, deep in his own slumber. Had there actually been anyone else in the apartment they would have commented that the scene was adorably cute. And then Mycroft would have immediately had them tossed into a very tiny, dark, cement cell where no one would ever find them again.

Mycroft Holmes did many things. _Cute_ was not one of them.


	13. Chapter 13

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

><p>Lestrade was going to be sick. He hadn't even seen the actual autopsy, but, reading over the report, he knew he was going to be ill. There was no way any sane person connected to the case, connected to <em>people<em> at all wasn't going to be.

But, printed in neat, black ink on neat, white paper it was spelled out clearly: the John Watson doll was not human. Animal hide, wooden bones, artificial hair. But not a single human cell had been used to make it. Whoever had done it loathed John on a level that Lestrade couldn't even begin to comprehend.

He sighed, and picked up his phone. People, much more powerful people than he, needed to know just how horrific the threat against the doctor truly was.

"Hey, it's me," he said quietly, looking around the empty offices, "Have you read the report yet?"

* * *

><p>Mycroft glared at the papers strewn across the desk in front of him. He did not want to be there at that exact moment, and he especially did not want to be there reading those specific reports. There were words in them, insinuations, that he could not stand to see. And, given the killers escalation of events, it could only mean that there were much, much worse things in store for John specifically.<p>

And Mycroft, for all of his calm and cool, did not want to see the doctor hurt. He enjoyed the man's company, even if his chatter was inane at times, and he had enjoyed waking up on the couch being used as a pillow rather more than he liked to admit. Though the fact that John had managed to drool on him had been the sole sore spot of the entire event.

But he wouldn't be able to put off hiding the facts from John forever. Possibly not even much longer than lunch. The doctor loved the thrill of the hunt, and hiding just how angry the tiger in the forest was would only get him killed in the end. No, John would have to know that the Doll Doctor saw him not only as unworthy of Sherlock, but also saw him as nothing more than just a doll. Not even human. He was a thing to be _played_ with. And everyone who was familiar with the case would be afraid of being that person's play thing.

"Sir, your reports," Anthea said, coming into the room quietly and depositing yet more paperwork on his desk.

Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his eyes. There was a serial killer stalking London, stalking the man who was now living with him, and yet the world still moved on. A few deaths were unfortunate, but nuclear war would be even worse.

He sighed. He could spare nowhere near as much time on the Doll Doctor case as he would have liked. He had more pressing, and far more important, obligations to keep him occupied. But he trusted John. He wasn't a fool, though a little rash at times, he kept a clear head and open eyes. And Mycroft would have to trust him to solve this case while he was busy with the growing economic crisis in India and the nuclear issues in North Korea.

There was only so much luxury time he could spend focused on side projects. He at least was assured that there were others looking after the good doctors safety while he was busy.

* * *

><p>John sighed and stared at the building. He didn't want to be here. He had <em>never<em> wanted to be here again. But his hand had been forced. He had seen the autopsy results, despite Lestrade trying to hide them from him, and he knew now what must be done. The killer wouldn't stop hunting and killing innocent victims while he was safe in Mycroft's tower, protected from the city.

He was a better man than that. And while he couldn't put his plan into action immediately, he needed to speak with both Lestrade and Mycroft first, he could at least begin executing it. And the first part of that required him to visit Mrs Hudson and ask if 221B was still available for rent. He hoped it was, and, better yet, he hoped it was still furnished. He didn't want to have to combine finding furniture with catching a serial killer.

Shopping was one danger that he would happily live without.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry for the short chapter, things came up in life. I'll try for longer next time.<p>

Now: I get to do awesome Word of God things! Yay! This is specifically for MadaMag who left a pretty awesome review last time.

A: A fan of Sherlock? Given just how popular Watson's blog was, to the point that a deer stalker cap became known as a Sherlock cap, yes, it is very likely that it is a fan of Sherlock's.

B: In the medical field? Maybe. You would be surprised about how many people are knowledgeable about medical studies without being in the medical field. Then again, you would also be surprised about how many people are in the medical field that shouldn't be as well.

C: Personally know Watson and Sherlock? Probably not. Given the amount of photos of the both of them toward the end, just being able to reproduce dolls based on photographs is nothing. I actually have a doll that was made to look exactly like me from a photo that was taken when I was five. And yes, it is one of the creepiest things that I own, but I love it in a twisted way. It's not made of human parts though.

A: John does not work in a hospital, he works in a clinic. Huge difference, trust me (yes, as a cancer survivor, I've seen the inside of both a ton, I prefer clinics for most everything, but hospitals are there for the heavy duty stuff that a clinic just can't accommodate). Clinics do not have surgical suites or any need of anyone practicing surgery physically. They don't do that sort of thing, that's all hospitals. And then you get the doctor that seams you up crooked and you look like a badly patched zombie for the rest of your life.

B: It's not Molly. Molly knows Sherlock is alive, and Molly is far too timid to start slicing up people for a message. It's not in her at all.

As to the comment about the dolls: they are _all_ connected to both John in Sherlock. Obviously they're not all patients of John's, someone would have picked that up immediately, but they are all connected. They're just not all connected in obvious ways. But they were all specifically chosen, if you go back and reread you'll notice how, hopefully. I was actually sort of afraid that I had made the murders too blindingly obviously intended to target John at first, so I'm glad that I didn't give the game away.


	14. Chapter 14

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Fourteen

* * *

><p>"No! I absolutely forbid it!" Mycroft shouted, glaring at John over the coffee table still covered in paperwork.<p>

"I'm not a child, Mycroft," John snapped, "You can't forbid me from doing anything."

"You plan is suicidal," Mycroft pointed out, "Moving back into 221B will make you the perfect target. So no, you will not be doing it. There are other ways to catch a serial killer than getting yourself killed."

John snorted, leaning back on the couch and crossing his arms, glaring at Mycroft petulantly. Mycroft knew the argument wasn't over, but John was biting his tongue and going over words. He didn't want to say something stupid, it seemed. Or, at least, Mycroft thought to himself, nothing stupider than suggesting suicide.

"I'm not trying to catch this asshole by getting myself killed," John said quietly, his voice low and angry, "I'm trying to lure him into a trap. That's where the Yard's men and your men come in. _They're_ supposed to make sure I don't get killed!"

Mycroft shook his head, "No, John, there's no guarantee. I'd rather you living than in a grave next to my brother."

John had nothing to say at that. He just stopped, and _glared_ at Mycroft. He had been the one that Sherlock had left his 'note' with, he was the one that had _seen_ him die. And now it was ammunition to be thrown back at him. Fitting, given how many times John had thrown it in Mycroft's face.

"This is different," John insisted, "This is for a reason! He won't stop until he thinks he can get me!"

"Well, he can't get you," Mycrof roared, standing up suddenly and pointing his finger at John, "And if you think you can just throw your life away-"

"I would be throwing my life away," John interrupted, launching to his feet, "It would stop the killings-"

They both stopped and stared at Mycroft's phone as it began to ring. Lestrade's name flashed across the caller ID, and John winced. It should have been him that Lestrade was calling, not Mycroft. Lestrade shouldn't have to be worried about dragging John to crime scenes, or putting him in the line of danger. He should know that John _wanted_ to be there, helping out. Especially now that he was so intimately involved with the case.

Mycroft snatched up the phone and answered it brusquely, still glaring at John. This argument of theirs was not over.

"Yes. Yes. I see," Mycroft glanced back at John, "Yes, he's safe. I understand."

"What's going on Mycroft," John demanded, "What's he done now? _Who_ has he killed now?"

Mycroft took in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. John wasn't going to like the words that he was about to say next, and it would only reinforce his suicidal argument of moving back into 221B Baker Street. But it couldn't be avoided, John would rather have the bloody facts than a clean room with a haunted closet.

"Ms Molly Hooper didn't show up for work today. At the end of her shift a coworker was worried and checked up on her," Mycroft explained, watching John go very, very still, "Her corpse was found in her apartment. Desecrated."

"Oh god, Molly," John gasped, sinking down onto the couch, Mycroft sitting next to him, "How bad was it? Oh god, it was bad."

Mycroft nodded, and lifted his left arm shakily, wrapping it around John's shoulders, "She didn't suffer. There is at least that."

"No, but she wouldn't be dead at all if it wasn't for me," John whispered, burying his face into his hands and leaning into the support that Mycroft was attempting to lend, "She was just so _nice_, she didn't deserve whatever he did to her."

"No," Mycroft shook his head, holding John close, "No one would deserve that, I'm sure."

* * *

><p>Lestrade, standing at a crime scene somewhere else in the bowels of London, was trying not to be sick. Now anyone John knew on a personal level was fair game. Bloody letters scrawled across the wall made that very clear. The Doll Doctor wanted his victim to come out to play.<p>

* * *

><p>AN: The FF (dot) net alert system is currently down. And, given how slow the site is about getting things like that fixed (about two days now), there's no word on when it will come back up. But I'm more than happy to send out manual alerts to everyone with an account. Just leave a review and I'll post the alert to you as soon as the next chapter is up! This message brought to you by the not so automated author alert system, used by authors that like pounding their heads against keyboards everywhere!<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Fifteen

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><p>John was a very, very stubborn man. He knew it, his family had always known it, and everyone he had worked with knew it. That was why it came as no surprise to Lestrade when John demanded to see the scene where Molly had been so brutally butchered. He hadn't minded showing John the scene, that wasn't the worst of the place.<p>

So Lestrade had relented on the condition that John was assigned security to make sure he didn't end up smeared across the evening papers as another victim of the Doll Doctor as well. John had refused, of course, insisting that if he had never needed protection while working with Sherlock, he certainly didn't need protection now.

Mycroft had said otherwise, and that left John where he was now. Standing at the entrance to a tiny London flat, Molly had never splurged with living expenses it seemed, flanked by two well dressed, well armed gentleman that neither answered John's questions nor bothered to acknowledge that he was speaking to them at all.

John had taken to mentally referring to them as 'Bob' and 'Other Bob'. Neither of them had so much as blinked when John had told them so on the ride over. John had just mentally grumbled at fascist dictators with sticks so far up their asses that they could pick fruit out of their teeth. Damn Mycroft.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and John's two followers, opening the door to let the man into the living room, and John just shook his head. He didn't even want to try to explain the situation to Lestrade while at a crime scene, especially not Molly's. He didn't want to bring _that_ to the place where poor Molly had died.

Poor Molly, who would be here still now if John had not tucked tail and hid in Mycroft's lofty fortress.

"Are you still sure about this, John," Lestrade asked resting a hand comfortingly on the medic's shoulder, "You don't need to be here."

"I'm the reason she's dead, Greg," John sighed, looking up with sad eyes, "I at least owe it to her to see the damage that I caused."

"Not you," Lestrade snapped, eyes shifting up from the technicians scouring the scene for evidence, "This was all him. He's the one slitting throats and skinning bodies, not you John. Don't you go blaming yourself for this now."

John nodded, and looked up.

The body had long since been taken away for a full autopsy, though everyone already knew the cause of death. There was a chair knocked over, and the coffee table had been shoved hard. Hard enough to send the neat pile of magazines to the carpeted floor. She had struggled. John winced at that thought, she had died terrified, she had died _knowing_ that she was going to die.

It had not been a peaceful death for poor, sweet, innocent Molly Hooper.

And there, scrawled across the wall in the dirty, rusty color of dried blood, were the smeared words: Olly Olly Oxenfree John!

Gone was the neat and precise handwriting of the past two scenes. Gone was the delicate work, the precision kill, the beautiful layout. Now it was just the Doll Doctor calling for John, reminding him that there was more at stake than just John living trapped in a tower. If he didn't come out, didn't come down to the levels of London where the Doctor could get at him, the killer would gut everyone John knew until John killed himself.

"I want to see her body," John insisted, turning to stare at Lestrade.

Lestrade just hung his head with a sigh, and nodded.

* * *

><p>Mycroft stared at the crime scene photos from Molly Hopper's apartment, ignoring the pile of paperwork informing him about scientists in the Middle East and elections in the US, and blanched white. This was not the play scene he had expected, and now he was kicking himself for allowing John anywhere near it.<p>

Things would only get worse now. There was no way he would be able to keep the man safe at his own place, where there was security in place. John would flee to his plan to moving back into 221B the instant he arrived back home. All Mycroft could do was cup his face in his hands and sigh.

He picked up the phone with a heavy heart, and ordered security and surveillance to be placed on 221B Baker Street. One Doctor John Watson would be moving back into his previous accommodations to play live bait for a serial killer.

* * *

><p>While John had gotten used to ignoring Bob and Other Bob, Lestrade had not managed to shake their eerie presence from the back of his mind. Every time they turned a corner or used a lift, there they were, always looking silently at the area around them, guarding John. He had to admit, though, there were a lot more intimidating than any security the New Scotland Yard would have been able to assign the case.<p>

But, as they approached the doors to the morgue, Lestrade turned and shook his head. Molly's corpse would bring John to his knees, he already knew that, and the less witnesses the better to the man's emotional breakdown. Mycroft was already going to have his head for letting John get this far, best let him go the rest of the way in peace, with a friend to catch him alone.

John stepped forward into the room, and Lestrade closed the door behind them.

"It's bad, isn't it," John whispered softly, approaching the slab where the covered body lay.

"He wasn't nice to her," Lestrade agreed, "Not like with the others. You don't need to see this, John. I can brief you with the autopsy file later. She wouldn't take offense to you not seeing her like _this_."

John shook his head, and pulled back the sheet, and gasped.

Her throat was a bloody gash, her murderer had had to hold her down while she was _struggling_ to kill her. One of her eyes had to have been removed while she was still alive, the wound was too raw, too _ragged_ to be a post mortem operation. And there, between her two breasts, was the bloody mark of a perfectly removed skin heart. John would have wept if he didn't feel so sick.

"She was alive when he did this," John whispered, his voice hitching, "He _tortured_ her! Oh god Greg, he _tortured_ her."

Greg nodded, stepping forward and pulling the sheet up, back over Molly's body. It wouldn't do to mention that she had had the gold coins forced down her throat while she was still alive, or that her heart, her actual heart, was missing as well. John was already broken up, he didn't need to hear the worst of it.

* * *

><p>Mycroft was waiting for John when he arrived back at the flat, nodding to the two guards that their job was done for the day, he could watch John now. The two men, silent escorts that both counted themselves lucky that they had not seen the body in the morgue that had broken the ex army medic so, nodded and left.<p>

"John," Mycroft whispered softly, "I'm so sorry."

"What he did to her," John hiccuped, tears springing to his eyes, "Oh god Mycroft, you can't even imagine. What she must have felt what she must have gone through..."

John, never one for tears, found his face wet and buried in Mycroft's shoulder, Mycroft's arms wrapped securely around him as he led them both to the couch. And John just let himself weep openly, and Mycroft just nodded, and let the man ruin his suit jacket and held him close, trying to keep the world of hurt and danger away from one John Watson for at least that night.

* * *

><p>AN: The alert system is working again. If it goes down again I'll go back to manual alerts guaranteed.<p>

That said, yes, yes I was cruel to poor, dear, sweet Molly. Molly who matters. Molly who did not deserve what happened to her. I've never felt sad about writing a chapter before. Well, not recently anyway. That said, it didn't help that I was giggling over 'Benedict Cumberbatch is an otter!' in a different tab while I wrote this. Otters are forever tied to serial killing doll makers to me now. And, you know what? They're still rather cute.


	16. Chapter 16

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Sixteen

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><p>Mycroft was a very intelligent man. He had never prided himself on this knowledge, he had simply known it, and used it to the best of his advantage. He had never been scolded by any adults whose opinions he cared about for being too intelligent, though he had been told off by more than a few teachers in his time for being what they called 'too smart for his own good'. Mycroft had always dismissed them as being fools, and his parents had never argued otherwise.<p>

But Mycroft had always known that he was challenged at an emotional level. As had been his brother, unfortunately. It was not that they had been raised in a cold and distant household, though they had been for the large part, but that they had been taught that emotions clouded one's judgment, and it would be better to ignore them. And so, after an entire lifetime of living under such standards, Mycroft was simply at a loss as to what he was to do next. He had an ex army medic asleep in his arms, cushioned against him on a very soft and lovely couch, and he was trying to analyze what exactly it was that he was feeling. Outside of drying fabric on his shoulder where the tears had soaked through.

He wasn't sure if he would call it love, but only because his idea of love was confused and muddled. He knew of love on a basic, physiological level. He knew that this 'love' caused the increase of a heartbeat, shallow breathing, dilated pupils, endorphins released into the bloodstream, and the arousal of the genitalia. But he also knew that was the reaction to lust, and nearly any other physically stimulating pleasure. And he certainly knew that he did not love his hand.

But he felt that the movies, and the literature, and every lecture he had ever received on the subject fell far short of actually _explaining_ the phenomenon. He knew he certainly couldn't look to his parents marriage and use it as any basis, they had had an arranged marriage and it was a miracle that Mycroft had been born at all. The fact that his mother had consented long enough to produce a younger brother was something of wonderment to Mycroft to this day.

So, hopelessly lost, Mycroft decided that he may not be _in love_ with the man that was cuddled in his arms, but he certainly wasn't against the idea. And he certainly wouldn't complain if said man in his arms expressed any positive opinions on the matter. But, at the moment, he was deep in a restless slumber, dead to the world after sobbing his heart out for the better part of a half hour, and Mycroft was loathe to wake him. He would rather wake with a stiff neck and a sore back in a wrinkled suit in the morning than disturb the doctor after he had finally nodded off.

He smiled slightly as John wedged in closer to him, more than likely just slightly chilled by the evening air, no matter that Mycroft kept the apartment heated to a constantly comfortable level, and was merely unconsciously seeking body heat. But Mycroft, ever ready to take advantage of a good situation, merely hummed, kissed the top of John's head gently, and rubbed his hand up and down John's back in soothing motions as he drifted off to sleep himself with a smile on his lips.

* * *

><p>Lestrade glared at the phone, and then stared back at the photos. Mycroft's assistant, or, at least, one of Mycroft's nameless minions, had called him at an ungodly hour that morning to inform him of John's most recent, and most insane, plan. He would be moving back to 221B, and Lestrade was to lead the protection squad that was watching over the flat.<p>

With, of course, the help of Mycroft's men. Mycroft's men who had arrived, informed him that they would be working the case as well, and had simply disappeared never to been seen by any member of the New Scotland Yard again. Which would be how Lestrade liked the entire situation if it hadn't been for the fact that said mysterious gentlemen were impossible to get a hold of as they had left no contact information, and now Lestrade was at a loss as to whether or not the hidden security camera he had found had belonged to them, or to the Doll Doctor.

And Lestrade did not want to pull Mycroft bloody Holmes out of bed just to ask him a simple question as what his agent's phone number was. He knew that there would be no good outcome from a phone call like that.

So he gritted his teeth, and picked up the phone to order his men to remove said device from the apartment. It wasn't theirs, and that was all that mattered. If Mycroft's men complained he would tell them to stuff it and to learn to hide their bugs better next time. They were supposed to be _better_ than the NSY at this sort of shit after all.

* * *

><p>John opened his eyes sleepily, rubbing them and shifting awkwardly on his pillow with a frown. His bed seemed to have become rather lumpy rather suddenly, and it reminded him of sleeping on a person rather than the soft mattress and normally warm blankets that Mycroft's guest bed normally had.<p>

"Good morning John," Mycroft said, his voice a little too cheerful for such an early rising hour John thought mentally.

"Mycroft," John question sleepily, yawning and looking around.

Instead of the guest bedroom he saw the living room, and groaned. He had fallen asleep on the couch after his sob session the night before. And, he blushed suddenly, he had decided to fall asleep on _Mycroft Holmes_ on top of everything else. He was rather surprised that the man hadn't just flung him off onto the ground and gone off to bed some time during the evening.

"Oh God," John yelped, sitting up suddenly in a tangle of limbs, and pulling himself and Mycroft down to the floor.

Mycroft yelped and hurumphed in a very not British, and non dignified manner.

"Mycroft, I am so sorry," John apologized again, locating his hands and pulling them free of the mess, "I didn't mean to, you should have woken me!"

"John," Mycroft smiled softly, "It's okay. I didn't mind, really. You needed your rest."

John sighed, and collapsed backward against the bottom of the couch, his hands dragging over his eyes. Falling asleep on the British Government would be a tale for the ages in twenty years or so he was sure, but right now he was embarrassed and blushing and rather at a loss at exactly _how_ he was supposed to apologize properly. Especially when Mycroft seemed to think it the most hilarious situation ever, judging by his smile and amused look.

"And besides, we have other things to concentrate on this morning," Mycroft explained, sitting up and adjusting his vest.

"Other things," John asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Your moving back into 221B," Mycroft said with a sigh, adjusting to sit next to the man, "We need to go over security procedures, John, if you are to move in and make yourself bait safely."

"Thank you Mycroft," John smiled, letting his head fall to rest on Mycroft's shoulder, "I need to catch him. I need to make this bastard pay for everything he's done."

"Don't worry John," Mycroft said, resting a hand unnoticed on the other man's thigh, "I won't let him kill you too."

John snorted, and nuzzled sleepily into Mycroft's shoulder. He didn't care about his own life, but he would be damned if he would let a serial killer run around the city taking the lives of his friends.


	17. Chapter 17

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Seventeen

* * *

><p>John had many fond memories of the flat. Of hunting out criminals, of telling Sherlock for the umpteenth time that he needed to eat, or preparing many, many cups of tea before, during, and after cases. 221B had been as much a home to him for eighteen months as his own home had been growing up.<p>

But now, returning to it, he couldn't help but feel the cold chill that permeates a place that is never occupied. The dust had settled on the sparse furniture, and all of the bizarre trappings that Sherlock and himself had dragged in had long since been packed away by Mrs Hudson. Gone was the skull painting that looked like a woman sitting in front of a vanity if you squinted just right, and gone was the chemistry equipment that John was always sure would be the death of someone some day. All it was now was a shell that screamed of old memories, but really had none left to give.

And, John sighed, looking toward the couch, noting that Mrs Hudson had gotten the bullet holes repaired in the wall above it and had the wallpaper redone, this was the place where he would make a final stand. Mycroft had briefed him quite thoroughly all that morning, and Lestrade had gone over yet more security on the ride over. There were bugs and trip alarms and stand by teams stationed outside, and across the street, and down the block. The Queen herself would be hard pressed to have a more secure location. But that's where the difference between the two of them lay, John snorted as the thought crossed his mind; no one was trying to kill the Queen right now. Someone, a very mysterious someone, was very determined to kill him.

John wondered, not for the first time, if it was some victim that owed Sherlock for solving the murder of a loved one. If it was some obsessed fan that Sherlock had collected over the years that was still too broken from the original hurt to let go of the one shining bit of light they had found in this dark world. It wouldn't surprise him, John admitted to himself, he had clutched onto the grief of Sherlock's loss a little tighter than was sane himself. But he had let it slip away. Sherlock was dead, and while it was sad, heaven, hell, and the Earth moved on. And he had to as well if he wanted to stay sane.

The best way to do that might not be to put himself out as bait for a serial killer, but it was what he had available to him. And John rather liked the thought of continuing Sherlock's work, even if he was nowhere as good as the genius consulting detective, it was still something. It was still more than _nothing_.

"I would suggest Sherlock's room, as it is closer to the alarms," Mycroft said suddenly, coming up the stairs behind John, "But I would understand if you would like your original abode, up the stairs."

"Yes," John nodded, looking across the flat, past the dust and into the past of what it had once been one last time, "More secure, really."

Mycroft smiled, and John followed him to what had been Sherlock's room once upon a time. Now it was plain. No posters, no neat stacks of books waiting to be read or already read and forgotten, no overly luxurious sheets to hide under. Just a plain, simple bed with a plain, simple comforter. And a desk with a lamp, and a chair that John already knew from looking at would bruise if sat in to long.

It wasn't the 221B he had lived in for eighteen months. Now it was just 221B, another flat on busy Baker Street. Just waiting for someone to occupy it and bring it back to life once more, but it was dead now. Dead, and forgotten, and just a fanciful memory.

"John," Mycroft asked, concern lacing his voice, "Are you sure you want to do this? I can always call the entire thing off."

"No," John nearly shouted, his voice higher than he wanted to admit, "No, I was just thinking. I haven't been back since after the funeral. I didn't realize how much the old place had changed while I was gone."

Mycroft rested a hand on his shoulder, and nodded. He, too, could understand the ghosts that haunted old buildings and terrorized their previous tenants. The Holmes family was highly intelligent, incredibly wealthy, and cursed to fear that which had come before in some form or another. It's what drove them apart and brought them together.

"You're clear on the security procedures then," Mycroft asked yet again, trying to reassure himself more than John that John would be safe, "You know all the signals and alarms?"

"Yes Mycroft," John smiled up at the older politician, "I know every when, where, and how about this plan. Inside, outside, and all the way down the street to the market. All that's going to happen is that we are going to catch a serial killer, and put an end to this bloody business."

Mycroft smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. He, too, knew every detail of the trap by heart, but he was worried. All it took was an instant for things to go from predictable to bad. It had only taken a moment for Moriarty to go from captured criminal to suicide, and that had led to Sherlock throwing himself from the ledge of a building. And Sherlock was so much faster, so much _craftier_ than John was. The Doll Doctor was more than just a sly knife in the dark, he was purposeful and vengeful. And no matter how hard he tried, all of his men wouldn't be able to put John Watson back together again if he managed to slip in and slit his throat.

"Go, Mycroft," John whispered, "You're delaying everything."

John looked up, and smiled. Mycroft smiled back sadly, and nodded. Of course, the faster he left the faster this awful business could be done with and the faster he could go back to pursuing other matters concerning the blond doctor.

"Of course," Mycroft acknowledged, "Stay safe. Please."

John laughed and nodded, and Mycroft went down seventeen steps and out the front door with a heavy heart. He didn't like being involved in situations where he did not have all of the facts, or even nearly enough. And the Doll Doctor had him flying completely blind.

* * *

><p>John went about his business in a very proper English manner. He had a mug of tea, he placed his clothing in the empty dresser, and he began going over the previous Doll Doctor case files with a fine tooth comb. Sarah Andrews, whose eyes had been used as Sherlock's at a tea party in John's dilapidated apartment, Angelica Thorson who had been posed like an angel, Thomas Crane who had been, quite literally, spineless. And boneless. Susan DeWater who had been dressed as lovely Clara from the ballet. They all swirled together into a giant arrow that pointed at John. <em>Screamed<em> at John.

The Doll Doctor was bored of playing with his dolls. Now he wanted John to come out and play. Now he wanted to play with John. John sighed, and leaned back on the couch, wishing it was anywhere near as comfortable as Mycroft's was, rubbing at his face. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

><p>Mycroft swallowed as he looked over the papers that were spread out before him. Six missing persons. All connected. The youngest barely over a year old. Named Sherlock, after the man who had caught her grandparent's killer. The mother had been in and out of mental institutions, had issues with dependency. Had violent rages. Was highly intelligent, would have gone far in life if it hadn't been for her mental issues. No, Mycroft struck that thought from his mind, would have gone far if she had bothered to take her medication and attend therapy sessions.<p>

He swallowed as he looked over her papers. She had followed the Sherlock Holmes phenomenon obsessively since the day that John had posted the first case on his blog. She had never stalked Sherlock in person from what the records showed, but she had stalked him online. And after his death... the posts she had made on forums. The posts _blaming_ John were horrifying. And now she was missing, and all five of her children had not been seen since a week before the first killing. Five little girls. He would place money on their genetic profiles matching the feathers from five unknown victims.

"Lestrade, be on the look out for a petite woman, auburn hair," Mycroft swallowed, "One Melissa James is the Doll Doctor."

* * *

><p>AN: So the story is quickly drawing to a close. Maybe a chapter or two left before the end. And, before anyone asks, no, it's not going to end well. For anyone.<p> 


	18. Chapter 18

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Eighteen

* * *

><p>John stared at the paperwork Mycroft had brought with him. A personal touch he considered a bit frivolous considering he must have had at least a dozen aides that could have rushed the files over. Some even faster. But, as he flipped through psychiatric records and internet forum print outs, he could feel a cold chill running up his spine.<p>

This was the woman who was stalking him? The was the woman who was killing just to get back at him? She was tiny, no more than 5' 3". He could see her killing the children, but he couldn't see how she would have hauled furniture or boned a teenage boy without help.

"Are you sure," John asked, looking up at Mycroft, "This just, it just doesn't seem right."

"And yet the facts are all there," Mycroft sighed, staring at John, "Her missing children, the time frame, the threats and rants, the violent rages, the intelligence. Melissa James fits the profile perfectly."

"But her own children," John said, his eyes trailing across pages with neat little school photos attached, "Would she really kill her own children just to get back at me?"

Mycroft shrugged, "Why would her own children be spared when she was so ready to kill the children of others? Madness, John. Madness."

"Madness comes from fairy tales," John muttered under his breath, still going through the documents.

It made sense. On a very logical, very base level, it made perfect sense. But it was just too _odd_. John knew it had to be because he didn't want to think of a mother doing those _things_ to her children, he didn't want to think a human being was capable of any of the murders. Deep down, in the very back of his mind where he kept his fear of the dark and things that lurked under the bed, he had truly thought that it was a real monster that they had been chasing. A demony creature with glowing red eyes and glistening fangs.

But, instead, it was a tiny woman with green eyes and an enchanting smile who had been in and out of institutions for nearly half her life. A woman who had latched onto her knight in shining armor, Sherlock, without even stopping to think that the knight was more a careless dragon that gave no concern over the people underfoot. She looked so innocent, John thought, so happy. Surrounded by happy children that were in unmarked graves or putrefying under debris in a skip somewhere.

He traced the outline of her face, and couldn't even summon the image of her as a monster to mind.

"Humans are the scariest creatures of them all," Mycroft finally said, "Now come, you haven't eaten all day and I simply cannot allow you to continue like that. You do need food to continue your work, John, and we haven't caught her yet. She's still quite likely to climb through your bedroom window as to say hello to you in the street."

John yawned and stretched with a nod. Mycroft was right, he argued with himself, continuing on an empty stomach was worthless. He wasn't a robot, and they still hadn't caught the woman. A hot meal would help settle his mind and make it a tiny bit easier to concentrate. Though the image of poor Molly kept flashing through his mind, and he just shook his head. Molly may have been a bit on the small side, but he just didn't see _how_ Melissa would have been able to take her out so easily. Maybe that was why the struggle, why the _torture_.

"Chinese," Mycroft asked, waiting at the door for John to collect his thoughts and his jacket, "Or would you prefer Italian?"

"Don't you know how to cook anything yourself," John snorted.

He shook his head. The great and almighty Holmes brothers. And neither of them knew how to operate an oven or read a cook book. It was a miracle that Mycroft hadn't dropped dead of sodium induced heart failure with the way he ate. Sherlock had most likely only been spared it because he refused to eat in the first place, not that that had been any better.

"It's simply more convenient-"

"Yeah, yeah, more convenient to have someone else do the work for you, I know," John rolled his eyes, "Come on, you should still have left over roast in your fridge, unless you devoured it all in the entire one hour you were home last. Don't think I haven't noticed the bags under your eyes."

Mycroft blinked, honestly surprised and entirely clueless as to what to say. John counted it as a win in his book, it wasn't often that someone was able to strike Mycroft _speechless_. But, all joking aside, he grabbed Mycroft's arm and began to lead him out of the apartment. He wanted delicious leftover roast sandwiches, and he wanted them sooner rather than later. Much better than the cans of beans in his pantry, or the cheese and bread. He hadn't exactly gone grocery shopping when he had moved in, more worried about being bait than eating.

"As you wish, John," Mycroft agreed halfway down the stairs, and John honestly did start laughing then.

* * *

><p>The building was as sterile and as cheerily lifeless as when John had left. Designed to hold high ranking dignitaries and other bureaucrats who lived alone and couldn't be bothered to be home more than once a blue moon. It was gorgeous, stunning, tall, well lit, and utterly desolate. John, though he enjoyed the luxury of the comforts in the apartment itself, had been rather pleased to move out and back into the normal world, serial killer be damned. He was intrinsically afraid of things that were just that spartan.<p>

"There may not be as much of the roast left as you remember," Mycroft hummed nervously, pressing the elevator buttons and looking away, "It was much... better than the frozen dinners I generally keep."

John snorted at that. Nearly everything was better than the frozen dinners that Mycroft kept. College living be damned, a grown man should be able to do better. Especially one that prided himself on being as _together_ as Mycroft did.

"If there's not enough for sandwiches we could always order in," John sighed, "Chinese, or whatever it was that were suggesting earlier."

Mycroft's ears turned a little pink, but he ignored the comment. The two were silent the rest of the short journey up, and to the door.

As John looked in at the plush couch he knew he was fond of sleeping on, and the table that he honestly did not think that either of them had ever eaten at, he stopped.

"Mycroft," John said quietly, staring ahead, "I do apologize, but I think I need to vomit."

Mycroft just nodded, and thought for a moment that he really wish he was altogether human enough to join John out in the hallway. Instead he stared at the corpse that was _congealing_ on the coffee table that had so often been covered in the paperwork surrounding the Doll Doctor as of late. There were the remains, the bloody, brutalized remains of one poor Gregory Lestrade.

His eyes were missing, but not sewn shut, his throat nearly ripped out in a bloody smile. His shirt was torn open, and pinned to it was the flesh heart that had to have come from Molly Hooper, carved around it were the words: I _heart_ John Watson!

Mycroft swallowed, and stared instead at the dolls on the sofa. The tiny, beautiful little girls, their eyes covered with masks, all dressed like John with various jumpers and uniforms. All just staring up at him, smiling like it was an innocent day in the park.

"Mycroft," John whispered, coming back to the door and leaning on the bureaucrat, "There's no way Melissa James did this. She wasn't _enough_ of _anything_ to do this."

Mycroft nodded in agreement. If Melissa James had taken Lestrade by surprise, maybe she could have killed him. The blood spray across the carpet, and the growing lake beneath the coffee table pointed clearly to the fact that Greg had been killed here, not placed. But there was no way she would have been able to get into the apartment in the first place. All the rest maybe, just maybe, but there was no way she could have been here without anyone noticing. His flat was a fortress, and now it was a grave.

"And Mycroft," John swallowed again, his legs beginning to tremble as the entire _case_ began to swarm across his vision, "I'm going to kill the bastard that did this."

"I wouldn't have it any other way, John," Mycroft agreed.

* * *

><p>AN: Oops, seems our poor little suspect was set up. Poor Lestrade, but everyone has to go sometime, I guess. And, for those asking for a happy living: I laugh at such things. I got shafted in the Reddit book exchange. So now I feel like being a little... well, this isn't going to be the worst of it. I kind of feel a bit guilty about this, but after surviving two very bad blind dates in a week <em>and<em> getting shafted in a book exchange I was just looking for someone to murder.


	19. Chapter 19

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Nineteen

* * *

><p>John stared at the cup of tea in front of him, watching it slowly cool and not caring. He felt like the cup of tea, in a strange way. Earlier that evening had been joking with Mycroft, and assurances that they were so close to catching the Doll Doctor. Just a day or two more and the entire thing would be over. Except now nothing was certain. He had known that Melissa James had been too convenient. That the Doll Doctor wouldn't let himself get caught so easily.<p>

"Drink your tea, John," Mycroft whispered, sitting in the chair across from him, staring at John's cup.

"Why," John finally whispered, "How? Your place was supposed to be safe, Mycroft!"

Mycroft shook his head as he watched tears stream down John's face. He had no answers to give. No information on how, and barely even when. Spread out across the coffee table, the aged hunk of wood his brother had stepped on or over time and time again, were all the details surrounding Lestrade's murder. The entire CCTV network for half a mile had been taken down for over an hour. The security in the complex had gone down as well. The last sign anyone had had of Lestrade was him answering a phone call, and then leaving the Yard for the night.

The phone call had traced back to a dumped pay per minute phone, payed in cash, no camera images of the area available. Whomever had done it had known exactly how to hit and where, and they had been completely unforgiving. No, the suspect list had been thrown out the window, though the DNA from the five unknowns had been traced to being related. That much was true; there was a dead family out there somewhere, and no one had reported anything.

"I'm sorry John," Mycroft sighed, "I failed you in this. I thought for sure that he would strike here, I didn't even think it was possible for anyone to get into my flat."

"But two people did," John rasped, "First Lestrade, and then his killer. Whoever it was knew _exactly_ how to get there Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded. Yes, that much was true. Whoever it was knew security inside and out, and he was envious of their skills. Possibly already had full use of their skills just with the tap of his phone, but he had no way of knowing which person it was that was so good. He had so very many worker bees that surrounded his deeds that it could take months to sort one out from the next. Initial security screenings should have caught something as dangerous as a possible serial killer, but the ones running the screenings were only humans themselves.

"You're staying here tonight," John finally said, breaking Mycroft from his thoughts, "You can't go to your place, and there's already so much security here that it's as good as any other safe house you have."

"John, are you sure," Mycroft started, "He might not strike if he knows there's another person here."

John snorted at that.

"It hasn't stopped him before. I don't know why it would stop him now. Hell, he probably has an entire doll collection devoted to you already if he thinks you're a part of Sherlock's death."

"He would have to," Mycroft said sadly, "You did."

John stared at him, his eyes stony and cold, and picked up his mug of tea and said nothing. Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek and winced. Leave it to him to say the exact wrong thing on an already bad night. He was losing his touch with words. Or was gaining the unnecessary trait of figuring out just exactly how to kick a person while they were down without realizing it.

"I'm off to bed, put your cup in the sink when you're done," John finally said, leaving the room with a very cold, very full mug of tea, and walking into what had used to be Sherlock's room.

Mycroft sighed, but was glad John had at least remembered to take that bed. Security was centered around there specifically, given the Doll Doctor's fondness for striking at night while his victims were asleep. At least, if anyone tried anything at all, John would be safe. Or, safe enough while help came streaming in from every possible entrance.

* * *

><p>Mycroft rolled over groggily, curious as to why he had been woken before sunrise, but too tired to properly orient himself for anything other than a curious yawn. The odd smelling sheets and the spartan room quickly reminded him that he was at 221B instead of his own apartment. And then everything fluttered into place, and he winced, hoping his throat wasn't about to be quickly slit.<p>

"John," Mycroft asked out loud, his voice rasping.

The noise that had woken him, the strange sound, approached the bed. Mycroft wished that there was at least a light in the room, a nightlight or the reflection from the window to actually see anything, but all he could blearily make out was a dark shadow approaching the bed. At least it was short, and matched John's figure Mycroft thought to himself.

"They're all dead," John whispered, tears choking his voice, "Wanted, wanted to make sure you weren't dead too."

Mycroft sighed, and sat up, glaring at the empty bedside table where a lamp should sit. If he were to spend a single night longer here, and he thought he would given the current circumstances, he would have to rectify that situation. It was highly annoying to need light and to have none at hand.

"Oh god Mycroft," John sobbed, crashing suddenly onto the bed and into Mycroft's side, "He's going to kill everyone."

"There there," Mycroft whispered, his hands awkward as he brought John closer and tried to free the blanket to wrap around the both of them, "My security team won't let him in."

"Didn't work for Lestrade," John whispered, his arms in a death grip around Mycroft.

"Jesus, you're freezing," Mycroft hissed, sitting up properly and freeing the blanket from beneath John with a giant twist.

John just continued to shake, not noticing as Mycroft wrapped the blankets around the two of them, not caring as Mycroft lay down again, his arms around him. And so the next half hour passed, as Mycroft whispered reassurances he could only hope were true into John's hair, and held John close, promising not to let a serial killer climb through the window and kill either of them.

Twenty minutes after John had finally passed out from exhaustion, Mycroft succumbed as well, hoping that his security team really was as good as he had promised. But, if not, he thought as he drifted off, he could at least waylay the serial killer long enough for John to escape. And that was good enough for him.


	20. Chapter 20

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Twenty

* * *

><p>John yawned sleepily, refusing to open his eyes as he stretched and snuggled in to the warm body that was lying next to him. His sleep addled mind paused for a moment, analyzing that last fact, before he decided that, for the time being, he was far too tired to care. He could worry and wonder about the strange person in his bed later, after he was done being tired and warm.<p>

"John as much as I find this situation quite lovely," Mycroft interrupted, "I do have matters to attend to."

"Attend later," John mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut, "Sleep now."

"It's been twelve hours, John, and even I can't sleep that long," Mycroft sighed, running his hand through John's hair.

John moaned and sighed, but reluctantly gave up his grip on the other man. Mycroft placed a gentle kiss on John's forehead, and then was gone from the bed. John groaned, honest about not wanting to wake up and face the day, and pulled the comforter over his head. It wasn't a particularly cold day, but everything seemed cold to him in the morning.

"Security is still in place, but I doubt the killer will strike during daylight hours," Mycroft whispered, pulling the blanket down over John's head, "But do please try to be careful. I would hate to lose you."

"You too," John yawned, looking up at Mycroft, "That damn bastard seems more intent on going after friends than me. Is your security tight enough?"

Mycroft smiled and nodded, running his hand through John's hair one last time, John clutching at his fingers weakly as he pulled away.

"John, I doubt even the Queen herself is more secure than I am."

John watched Mycroft go out the door, and heard him walk carefully down the stairs, and frowned. He knew, logically, that Mycroft was safe, that Mycroft would _always_ be safe. He was the British government personified, there was no way that he was running around unsupervised, but still something gnawed at John. The Doll Doctor could disable electronic security and could incapacitate a man as good as Lestrade. Maybe Mycroft was secure, but there was now the chance that he wasn't.

John pulled the blanket up over his head and tried to hide from the thoughts running around in his mind. He tried to ignore the little voice that hissed that no one that was near him, no one that even knew him, was safe. Even random strangers in the street were in danger given just how beautifully the Doll Doctor liked to pen his messages in their blood.

But, after several minutes, John took a deep breath in, and released it. He was a soldier, he reminded himself, he could face the reality that was around him without hiding. He _refused_ to hide under the blankets like a little child afraid of the dark. He would go over the cases once more, read every line on every report, and analyze every photo. He would find the Doll Doctor, and he would smash the man's head in against the street until he knew that the sick bastard couldn't hurt anyone else ever again.

John took another deep breath, threw off the blankets, and prepared for another long day. He was just thankful that there was tea in the apartment, he had a feeling he would go through his weight in it by the time the day was done.

* * *

><p>John shrugged his shoulders, and then rubbed at the old scar on his left shoulder, yawning and glaring at the reports and photos spread out on the table before him. Nothing was miraculously popping out at him, screaming new information. Just the same words over and over and over again. Delicate stitching, careful to kill first, skilled with a knife. Silent, unknown, and very deadly. The Doll Doctor would have driven Sherlock to madness, and brought John with him, but he knew that he would have enjoyed every minute.<p>

But, then again, if Sherlock were still around the Doll Doctor wouldn't be. There would be no need for such a psycho to scream and howl at John with each and every case, accusing him of killing Sherlock. Accusing him of letting Sherlock die.

John groaned, and flopped back on the couch, reaching for his tea cup and groaning when he found it empty. Again. If he kept this up, he sighed, he would do himself in with caffeine poisoning, and the Doll Doctor wouldn't have to be bothered to try anything. Hell, for all he knew, that was the great plan: get the victim to drink himself to death. With tea.

He chuckled at that, and then sat up and stretched. It may not be good for him to drink tea all day, but it helped calm him. He was British, to be without tea was to be without a limb. He stood slowly, testing his legs to make sure neither had decided to go off on a nap, and headed toward the kitchen.

His phone pinged cheerfully that a message had been received. John glared at it, but checked the message anyway. It could be a break, some unknown clue that he couldn't see but someone else working the case could.

_New evidence. St. Barts. -MH_

John smiled, placing the tea cup carefully on the counter, and then dashed for the stairs. Finally a break in the case.

He never even stopped to wonder why Mycroft would sent him a text instead of calling.

* * *

><p>AN: Short chapter for now, but don't worry, the story will end soon. Ever so sorry, but things end... well, they end.<p> 


	21. Chapter 21

I do not own any part of Sherlock Holmes, or the BBC show Sherlock.

Takes place post episode three of the second series (The Reichenbach Fall), so please be aware of spoilers.

* * *

><p>Eyes behind masks<p>

by Kaiyo no Hime

Chapter Twenty-one

* * *

><p>Mycroft rubbed at his eyes, and glared at the paperwork that seemed to enjoy breeding on his desk. Every time he finished with one report, three more showed up to taunt him. North Korea was threatening to launch more missiles, Japan was threatening to shoot North Korea, elections in the United States were going poorly, Greece and Spain were fighting over who could have a worse economic crisis.<p>

And there was still no clue on who was running around the city of London threatening and mentally torturing his John.

Mycroft sighed, and leaned back in the leather chair. He frowned as he noted that his teacup was not only empty, it looked to have been that way for a while. A crease marred his forehead as he leaned closer to investigate the oddity. He teacup was _never_ left empty for long. Anthea was a meticulous and exacting assistant. She always made sure his teacup was full, and there was food of some variety waiting for him while he was hungry.

Deep in the back of his mind, something shifted, and Mycroft began to worry. He paged in whomever it was that was now acting as his secretary. His excuse was for tea, but he needed information. Very, very important information.

"Yes sir," the young woman smiled.

Mycroft didn't bother returning the smile, he didn't care.

"Where is Anthea," he asked.

"She said she had an important appointment, sir, and that she would be back this afternoon," the secretary kept smiling, "Would you like some more tea?"

"No," Mycroft glared, and watched the woman hurry from the room as he picked up his phone.

Anthea did not handle private appointments while on the clock. And she always informed him when she would be unavailable beforehand just in case she was needed while busy elsewhere. It was outside of her norm to simply leave someone else to take care of her business, especially when Mycroft had been so very demanding these past few weeks.

"Check information on where Anthea is right now, and where John Watson is," Mycroft demanded, waiting for a moment as he heard keys clicking away speedily.

His face blanched as his question was answered. John had left the flat ten minutes beforehand, the last message to his phone, which he had accessed before running from 221B, had a message pointing him toward St Bart's medical facility. The message had been signed with his name.

"Get me my car. Now," Mycroft roared, "And shift the entire team to St Barts, Anthea is the Doll Doctor."

He didn't bother to wait for an answer, or to even speak to the flustered young woman outside his door who asked if he wanted his jacket as he nearly ran down the hallway. John would trust Anthea, without thought he would leave himself open to her, and then she would kill him. Slowly and painfully if the more recent deaths were any example.

And while Mycroft Holmes was not a religious man, he prayed then, as he rushed through the hallways and toppled secretaries and other paper pushers, that everyone would get there in time to end things before it was too late.

* * *

><p>John repressed a shudder as he looked up at St Bart's, remembering a day not too long past when he had also been staring up at the roof. But now he took solace that, instead of watching a dear friend jump to his death, he would be helping someone dearer stop a killer. It may not tip the scales equal, but it helped settle his heart about the cursed place.<p>

_Evidence on the roof. Please hurry. MH_

He rolled his eyes, and entered the building. Impatient demands must run fairly strong in the Holmes family. He could almost see Mycroft pacing on the roof, excited to point out one tiny thing that everyone else had overlooked. And John dearly hoped that he had found something, something that would break the case. John smiled as he pressed buttons and felt the life begin to rise.

It would never have occurred to him to check to roof for anything at all. But, looking back, of course someone should have searched the scene. The Doll Doctor must have felt some sort of connection with Sherlock, insane as it was. He must have nearly worshiped the man, so of course he would have visited the last place Sherlock had stood while alive. It might even have been some sort of holy ground to him.

He smiled as the doors opened, and raced towards the stairs. Finally, a mistake had been made. And now they would catch the man, and put him in a small, dark place for the rest of his life.

* * *

><p>Mycroft cursed as he launched himself from the car and raced into the building. There were traffic snarls all over the city. Anthea had torn the entire system apart, and now the security team was stuck somewhere in the middle of it. The fact that he had managed to get through at all had been a miracle. But now it was just him, John, and Anthea. On the roof where his brother had jumped to his death.<p>

He didn't bother with the lift as he raced toward the stairs. He didn't trust her not to have sabotaged it in some way as well.

* * *

><p>"Mycroft," John asked, looking around, confused.<p>

The roof was deserted, but for a small, folded note on the edge. John rolled his eyes and went to pick it up. He would have thought that the seriousness of the case would have cut the need to be so dramatic, but it figured he would be wrong.

He smiled as he picked up the note, and unfolded it to read.

_'_No wealth, no ruin, no silver, no gold  
>Nothing satisfies me but your soul'<p>

John just stared at the note, his eyes wide and his hand very, very still. He heard the gentle click of footsteps behind him, high heels of some sort given the sound, and resisted the urge to turn around.

"Anthea," John whispered.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to figure it out," the woman whispered, a knife coming around to caress John's throat gracefully, "I wouldn't struggle, dear, sweet John. You'll find that I was much better trained than you were."

John stiffened, but took her advice to heart. Anthea worked for Mycroft, worked very carefully, and very closely with him. He was very, very sure that, for such a small woman, she could fill him with very deep holes long before he would ever be able to lay a hand on her. He was a medic, not a member of MI6. And he wasn't about to try killing himself in a failed attempt to stop her.

"Why," John asked, turning as she positioned him on the edge.

She snorted, and the knife began to slowly cut into his flesh.

"Mycroft's world revolved around Sherlock. Always had," she answered politely, "He obsessed over everything he was doing or was not doing. But then one day you stumble into his life and things go a little crooked. Not much at first, just enough to make him look at the daily reports with an eyebrow raised."

"We were just friends," John insisted, testing the balance on his feet.

Maybe, he thought to himself, just maybe he would be fast enough to take her with him. It wasn't the perfect solution, but at least it made her pay for what she had done.

"Yes, that was always very clear, but you could convince young Sherlock of anything," she smiled against his neck, and John shivered, "But that day, you just stood there and _watched_-"

"I would have stopped him if I could!"

"Shut up," she hissed, "You threatened Mycroft, you ignored Sherlock, and you stood there and _watched_ as his entire world jumped off that building! And now you're upending his life, hogging time and resources he can't spare, just to look after you.

"You are filthy and undeserving. You killed Sherlock, and you'll kill him just the same," Anthea growled, the knife tightening in her grip and digging deeper into his flesh, "At least now he will mourn, and move on, and it will all be over."

"No it won't," a voice rang from behind Anthea, "It will never be over now."

"Mycroft," John rasped, swinging violently to the side as Anthea spun to look behind her, the knife still digging in to John's flesh.

Mycroft swallowed, staring at the two before him. He had never known just how unstable Anthea was. Of course there was some need for a bit of psychosis in their line of work, disposing of people and tracking and controlling governments wasn't exactly _sane_, but he had never seen just how far she had dropped in the water. The devotion, too, had been necessary. But not like this, he had never thought she would kill for him like this.

"Anthea, please," Mycroft said, reaching a hand out and stepping closer, "It's not John's fault, you don't need to kill him like this."

"After all he's done," Anthea sneered, "He's an infection, running through your veins. He has to die, Mycroft."

"No he doesn't," Mycroft insisted, taking another step closer, "No one had to die."

Anthea glared at him, her fist still tight around the knife, blood dripping down John's neck as he stood, captured, on the roof ledge. His hands were steady, his footing secure. He watched Mycroft and Anthea battling via eye, and shifted his weight just a tiny bit. Mycroft's gaze shifted to him, read him in a moment, and his eyes went wide.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft," John whispered, turning toward Anthea.

But Anthea had worked with Mycroft, alongside him, long enough to know how to read how he was reading a person. She glared at John, and, with a pull of her wrist, slit his throat. Blood didn't spurt out and drench her like in the movies, and death wasn't sudden. John's eyes widened just a fraction, and then he grabbed Anthea, and dragged them both over the ledge.

"John, no," Mycroft screamed, running, but just two steps too late.

He looked down, and watched the impact with tears. There, where his brother had lay dead just six months before, now lay Anthea and John Watson. He turned to the side and vomited what little tea he had drunk that morning, and slid to his knees, sobbing.

* * *

><p>Two years later<p>

* * *

><p>Mycroft sighed, laying a fresh bouquet on the grave. St Anne's Lace and lilies. He doubted that John would have liked it, John wasn't one who was much of a flower person, but Mycroft still lay the flowers on his grave once a week. Ferns in the autumn sometimes, and baby's breath in the winter. There was a little florist near the cemetery that John would have loved.<p>

"I didn't think you cared," a voice said suddenly, coming up behind Mycroft, "I thought that was useless."

Mycroft froze, his hands tightening in his gloves, and glared.

"I'm surprised you didn't have your assistant do this instead if you were trying to keep up appearances."

"I don't have an assistant," Mycroft whispered.

The man behind him snorted, and came to stand next to Mycroft.

"How long," he asked, "And how?"

"Two and a half years, Sherlock," Mycroft hissed, his arm tightening.

Sherlock paled a little, turning to Mycroft and cocking his head slightly to the side. Mycroft didn't need to look up to know that his brother was studying him, reading the fists at his side and the tears on his face with practiced ease. The two brothers had always been open books to one another, yet another curse of the Holmes family.

"Your assistant, she killed him," he said finally, "You loved him."

"Of course I loved him," Mycroft roared, swinging a fist and catching Sherlock in the face with a solid punch, "If you hadn't gone off and faked your death he would still be alive!"

Sherlock grunted from the ground, holding onto a split cheek and glaring up at his brother.

"He never would have been yours if I hadn't faked my death, he would have had no need to rely on you at all."

"But at least he still would have been alive," Mycroft growled, crouching on the ground and looking his younger brother in the eye, "I may be your brother, but you are nothing to me now. You cost me his life, and you can never repay that."

"So that's just it," Sherlock shouted as Mycroft stood and began to walk away, "You're just going to ignore me now?"

"Goodbye Sherlock," Mycroft said back, not even bothering to look back, and walked out of the graveyard.

Alone.

* * *

><p>AN: And that's a wrap folks!<p> 


End file.
